


May It Be

by ElvenScribes



Series: The Woodland Realm Chronicles [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Elves, Eryn Lasgalen, F/M, Immortality, Legolas' mother, Middle Earth, Mirkwood, Romance, Thranduil's wife - Freeform, Tolkien, father/son relationship, the woodland realm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 45,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenScribes/pseuds/ElvenScribes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of the wife of Thranduil precious little was known. Nothing, it seemed, remained of her within the mighty halls of the Woodland Realm, not even memory. All vestiges of her existence had been wiped clean, she lived on only in the mind of Thranduil himself, and by all accounts it was her death that had driven him at least partly mad.</p><p> Following the Battle of the Five Armies Legolas wandered the world of Middle-Earth, and it was not until after the War of the Ring that he at last returned to his childhood home in the Woodland Realm. Reunited with his childhood friend Tauriel, the elven prince reaches Eryn Lasgalen and sees his father once more.</p><p>Yet the truth of what happened to his mother on that fateful day is something none of them would ever have suspected… and when the truth comes to light nothing will be the same.</p><p>This is a tale of family, of friendship, and of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Elvenking walked on silent feet through the cavernous halls of his fortress and palace. Of late his kingdom had seemed emptier, likely due to the fact that many elvish lives had been lost in the War of the Ring. The loss struck the King soundly, but as was his wont he buried the feelings deep within where they could never be seen. He had come to know much of loss in his long life, too much of it truthfully, and thus he sought now to avoid the memories that brought only pain with them. Still, for one who walked the Elvenking's Halls alone there was little else one could do but dwell on memories. The etched wood beneath his feet was, itself, steeped in the history and tales of his people. So as the memories pushed themselves onto him, whether he willed it or no, Thranduil's ice-blue eyes grew distant and faintly mournful. First had come the loss of his wife... but no, that above all things he could not think on, and quickly Thranduil grasped at another memory, anything else but that, and landed squarely on the moment when Legolas had said he could not return to the Woodland Realm with his father after the Battle of the Five Armies.

It had been in that moment, when Thranduil had realized that he had driven even his own son away, that the ice which had encased his heart for so long began to crack. The words he had said to Legolas, about his mother loving him more than life itself, had held much more meaning than Legolas would ever understand... and yet, for all of that, for all that it meant to tell his son that much, Thranduil had still let him leave without a word of protest or a single clear declaration of the love he himself felt for his son. After their parting the Elvenking had done his best to keep abreast of his son's movements, yet when the forces of Sauron had converged on Mikrwood from Dol Guldur, the ensuing Battle Under Trees had ended in Thranduil losing track of his son. Now the king did not know whether his son lived or died, and it seemed that once more a mighty blow had been felled against the Elvenking.

The ultimate victory of the Woodland Realm in the Battle Under Trees had resulted in Thranduil's territory being stretched to cover all of the northern part of Eryn Lasgalen, Mirkwood re-named as the Wood of Greenleaves, and all the way to the mountains. Yet this seemed a poor consolation prize when faced with the death of so many of his people, and worse, the utter uncertainty which now surrounded the status of his son. Did Legolas live? Had he been slain in his noble pursuit of protecting the ringbearer? Was he lying somewhere now, hurt and alone, with none to care for him and hope far from him? All of these possibilities swirled constantly in Thranduil's mind, and it stood to drive him mad if he could not control his mind.

Around him the mighty stone pillars, carved from living rock, seemed to hum with a vibrance and life that Thranduil had felt was leaving him. Though immortal his spirit had suffered too much it seemed, and Thranduil began to feel old in a way he had never understood before. Still, he was king of the Woodland Realm, and there were many who depended on his leadership. As king he had no choice but to lift his head and carry on, letting nothing show of the suffering he felt within. The ice around his heart must be repaired and frozen once more, better to be cold and unyielding than burning in anguish and grief.

Abruptly the quiet peace of the Halls was interrupted as one of his guards came racing on silent feet to his king, falling onto his knees before Thranduil with discernible excitement shivering around him. "My King!" The elf gasped, brazenly lifting his eyes to meet Thranduil's, courtly manner forgotten in anticipation of whatever announcement he had to make. Frankly Thranduil could not fathom what news could possibly give rise to such energy, what was left to cause such joy?

Clasping his hands gracefully behind his back, Thranduil quirked a single brow and looked down at the guard. "Speak. What news do you bring to me that is worth such unseemly behaviour." He queried coolly, eyes glinting in satisfaction at the brief look of embarrassment which crossed the other elf's face. Ordinarily Thranduil would not have been so intolerant, but in this moment he was feeling neither benevolent or merciful.

"Forgive me my King." The elf said, lowering his eyes respectfully once more. "In my joy I forgot myself, but sire..." The guard once more seemed to lose grasp of etiquette and looked up at Thranduil. "Prince Legolas has returned."

For a moment there was only silence. Thranduil stared down at the guard, an unfathomable expression on his countenance. He did not know how to take this news. For so long he had wondered after his son, believing at last that they would never again meet in this life. To now hear that his son was not merely alive but returning to Eryn Lasgalen... it was more than Thranduil could bear.

"Bring him to me when he arrives." Thranduil breathed, feeling like weeping as another crack in the ice encasing his heart was formed.

"As you command sire." The guard said, springing gracefully to his feet and whirling to leave, pausing only briefly to add. "And the Lady Tauriel accompanies Legolas as well."

"Bring them both to me." Was all that Thranduil could manage before he felt his strength give way entirely, and despite the fact that his guard still watched him Thranduil was powerless to do anything but sink to the ground, his robe billowing about him as his palms rested against the ground, head hanging towards the glossy floor, his eyes glazed over.

His son was returned to him.


	2. Chapter 2

The elf-maid's green cloak was tattered, stained, and dirty. Yet to Tauriel it was her dearest possession. This cloak had accompanied her since she had first encountered the dwarves, first met Kili.... and she wore it now in silent memorium to him. The brave soul who had been smaller than her in stature but had stood so tall in spirit and heart. She had loved him, well and truly loved him, no matter how impossible that may have seemed, and it was that love and his subsequent death that had shaped her every move since that first day of meeting.

Now at last she returned to the Woodland Realm, though whether she would be welcomed there was another question entirely. Despite the fact that in the end Thranduil had, at least, understood and empathized with her pain, the mighty Elvenking had ultimately let her banishment stand. As a result Tauriel had been wandering Middle-Earth for the past eighty years, and her involvement in the War of the Ring, while legendary, had also been relatively unheard of among the Elvish population. They would be told of it ere long she supposed, for assuming that Thranduil granted her access she would be compelled to tell him of her adventures whether she preferred anonymity or not. Yet at present she was far more enticed by a more pleasant event that would be borne in the near future.

It had been eighty years since her banishment from the Woodland Realm, and also eighty years since she had seen her childhood friend Legolas. Much had she heard of him, one member of the Fellowship of the Ring which had ultimately led to victory over Sauron, and she greatly longed to see him again and hear of his adventures.

They had a long history it was true. There had been a time when Legolas had vied for her affections, and there had been a time when she had felt that she might be able to return them one day. Then she had met Kili and everything had changed. What Legolas felt for her now she did not know, but she hoped that at least a modicum of friendship would remain between them...and she looked forward to encountering him once again.

She sat in the crook of one of the tallest trees in Eryn Lasgalen, knowing full well that the blonde elf would pass through here on his way to the Elvenking's Halls. Sure enough she caught sight of a flash of blonde among the green of the underbrush, and with a grin she sprang nimbly down before him, pulling her bow taut as she did so and aiming it at him, certain that his would be facing her just as surely.

"It has been far too long my friend. Mae g'ovannen!" She added as an afterthought, beaming with delight, "you are well met!" It was infinitely delightful to see him once more, unharmed and wiser than before, an elf anyone would be proud to know, let alone call a friend.


	3. Chapter 3

The frost had visited early, sprinkling the springy grass with icing, causing the branches to rustle as darts of cold mounted the gushes of wind, screaming the shrill song of winter.  
Legolas drew a deep breath, exhaling a whirling cloud of white steam. It spiralled into the air, stretching out with tentative fingers to touch the glossy emerald surface of an oak leaf, before sinking into the shadowed depths of the Greenwood.  
For Greenwood it now was. Last time the elf had looked upon his birthplace, it was brooding darkness, the trees beset by an illness that caused them to rot and wither, their insides vomiting grime. The ground had been dark, as if charred, spewing smoke and grovelling insects, and the clack of the spider’s legs had been ever present, like the rustling of leaves or the sound of one’s own breath.  
Now, however, as Legolas stood tensely at the verge of the forest, his eyes were greeted by something altogether different.  
It was clean, dry, bright. The path eddied on through hues of brown and soft green, and olive and grey. No blackness, no shadow, except those which the spreads of leaves cast upon themselves. They seemed to be holding their breath, watching the elf standing at the verge of the forest without so much as a sound.  
The elf took a step forwards, feeling the skin of frost that covered the ground crunch under his light step. The wind laughed in his ear, a mocking voice, the voice of a child.   
Go on it said. Enter your home, Legolas. Or are you afraid? What are you afraid of, Legolas?

Nothing the elf whispered, and closed his eyes. His leather-clad foot ascended, poised,teasing the threshold as it hung in the crisp air. It fell, followed by the other. A leaf quivered, and fell from its branch, swaying from one side to the other in the entrancing dance of death. It touched to the ground with a sigh, and all of a sudden the breeze ran through the trees, causing a cheer and rustle to rise from the green leaves.

The prince of Eryn Lasgalen had returned home.

Legolas felt his pace quicken, his feet noiseless upon the leaf-covered ground. The scents of the forest wafted towards him, of wood and wet soil, the breeze rising soft perfumes of beech and acorn and carrying them with crisp hands towards his nostrils. Suddenly, an abrupt vigour cursed through his body, a sudden tingling energy, and before he knew it Legolas was soaring through the air, his hands and feet barely touching down on wood as he flew from branch to branch, his lithe body gliding and twirling like that of a bird.

By the time he had alighted without a sound on the forest’s carpet, he was half way to the fortress. This was the deepest part of the forest, where the trees grew taller than anywhere else, their knotted bark ascending further than the eye could see.  
As his finger slowly stroked the ragged surface, laughter touched his brain, memories of happiness so pure that he began to doubt if they were even real. This was Tauriel’s favourite part of the forest. Legolas had never asked why, but had followed her here all the same, and he recalled vividly, in saturated hues of white and green, how they had raced up these trees, spitting challenges to each other as to who could climb the highest. They would swing up, weaving through the boughs, until the ground was out of sight and all there was were leaves and blinding sunlight.

But neither of them ever won. Every time the young elf saw the trophy branch, he thought he must be the victor, and with a shout he would grasp it, only to feel another hand close at precisely the same moment, their skin brushing, stone against stone.  
Then they would proceed to grunt at each other, and begin flying down the tree to see who could arrive at the bottom first, pushing the other so that they would fall.

And, as if a spectre of his thoughts, something swooped to the ground beside him.   
Legolas turned in a flash, his bow drawn, ready to shoot. There was a sharp clink as the tip of his arrowhead touched another, the ringing sound echoing through the forest and abruptly breaking the pillowy softness that had previously basked the environment.

“Tauriel” he mouthed, but the words refused to leave his lips. He stood for a moment, incredulous, and then lowered the bow to his side, swiftly placing the unshot arrow into the quiver at his back. 

The elf blinked, and then nodded at her, his eyes slowly surveying her face. It seemed older than before, more wise, etched with lines of experience and grief. But as his gaze reached her eyes, it stayed there, fixed on their depth, like bottomless pools whose surface reflects the night sky's stars.

“Mae Govannen, mellonamin”* he said, a hint of a smile touching the edge of his lips. “Cormamin lindua ele lle”**  
_____________________________  
*Greetings, my friend.  
**My heart sings to see thee.


	4. Chapter 4

The breathless silence of the Greenwood was broken suddenly by the metallic clink that accompanied the kissing of the arrowheads, and with that single ringing sound it seemed that the forest woke once again. A bird trilled past the two elves, singing a little diddy as it flew, and a soft wind suddenly sighed through the branches of the trees, caressing Tauriel's face and making her smile, it was good to be home.

It was odd, the way a single relatively insignificant event could loom so large in a single moment, with every exquisite detail etched into vivid memory. For Tauriel this was one such moment, standing with her feet placed lightly on the hardened ground, facing her old friend once again. The earth was cool to the touch but, beneath the shelter of the trees, the frost which still held sway over the open meadows had retreated, leaving it cool but not icy. The colours of the forest bloomed in her vision, the rich greens and heavy browns melding together while the earthy scent of a healthy woodland tickled her nostrils.

For many years past Tauriel had seen little of the sun and forests. Her journey had taken her into the earthen homes in which Kili would have existed, the great kingdoms beneath the mountains being her abode for many years. The love she had shared with Kili, foreign as it was to the rest of the dwarves, had earned her their trust in spite of it's oddity, and in having the trust of the dwarves of Erebor she had found many doors open to her beyond that one dwarvish kingdom. 

All of this and more she knew she would have to share with Legolas, and on some level she feared doing so. He had stood by her throughout their dealings with the dwarves, even though it had undoubtedly pained him deeply to see her falling for a dwarf over him, and yet ultimately she had let him down and turned away from whatever feelings he held for her. A rift like that could be difficult to mend, and while he seemed pleased to see her now, she wondered how he would feel after further time spent in her presence. Tauriel supposed that, as with most things, she would simply have to hope for the best.

His reply to her words caused the elf-maid to smile and duck her head, relieved and pleased that he seemed to be as happy to see her as she was to see him. 

"Truthfully I had feared you might not be so pleased to see me." She admitted softly, lowering her bow in her stead and slipping it onto her back, placing the arrow into its quiver. Much had passed in the time since they had last seen each other, and while both remained the same in body and memory...they were very different in spirit now. She paused for a few brief moments to study him before smiling. "Lle maa quel."* 

Tauriel meant it too, given that he had been on, perhaps, the most dangerous quest of them all. Legolas seemed to stand taller now, more sure of himself in a different way than he had been when they had parted. It was more than mere confidence that he possessed, it was a sort of certainty, as though he knew his place in the world and was secure in it. Oddly he reminded her of some sort of forest cat; powerful, certain, and beautiful. 

The elf-maid grinned at him, the suddenly youthful expression on her face lighting her eyes and standing in stark contrast to the worn material of her clothes. "What has happened to my childhood friend!" She exclaimed with an easy laugh, stepping closer to Legolas and surveying him once more with an amused glance. "You have the look of a true prince to you now." Tauriel voiced ruefully, aware of the ringing truth in those words and feeling suddenly distant from him again. 

The two of them may have been childhood friends, and had now gone through events that would have made them equals on the battlefield, but in peace time the difference in their class was once more apparent, and there was nothing Tauriel could do to stop it from influencing things. Thranduil had made his position clear enough on the matter, and Tauriel would not come between them, not again.

"Hîr vuin."** She murmured dryly, sweeping into an elegant and respectful curtsy, knowing that it would likely drive him somewhat mad to have her treating him like royalty. Still, it was something he had best become accustomed to quickly, after all she could never be anything more to him than a loyal subject. A brief quiver of surprise struck her with that thought, had she hoped for more? It was a startling thought, and her mind flew back to memories of Kili. A part of Tauriel had always felt that one day Legolas' and her might be together, but in meeting Kili she had found that Legolas' feelings for her began to seem to be more a sort of infatuation than a true love, and she had doubted the feelings would linger.

Standing now before the elf whom had been her friend for so very long, Tauriel wondered if she had been wrong to believe that. Yet if, and it was in her mind a very large if, Legolas still harboured some sort of feelings for her, the grim reality was that they could still never come to fruition. Whether Tauriel's heart changed in the nature of it's affection for him or not, King Thranduil would never permit his beloved son to marry below his station, he had made that abundantly clear.

Not wishing to dwell on the subject further, Tauriel took a step away from Legolas and inclined her head deeper into the forest in the direction of the Elvenkings Halls. "Shall we go to see your father? I may not be welcome, I do not know whether your father's heart has changed in regards to my banishment." Tauriel spoke softly, pulling her eyes away from those of Legolas to look towards her childhood home. She dearly longed to return, yet knew that it was not as simple as that. "Perhaps it would be better if I stayed here..." she mused thoughtfully, curious to see where Legolas would stand on this issue.  
________________  
*You look well  
**My lord


	5. Chapter 5

Legolas blinked, searching her face for memories, vestiges of the old friend she had once been. Once the mere sight of her had brought back a wave of feelings, smells, sounds, sensations, etched into their minds after hundreds of years of close friendship.  
But now, perhaps after all this time, it felt more difficult, the certainty of remembrance extinguished, spluttering out like a candle in breeze. Yes, if he searched her features, tracing every line and detail, the memories would glide back to him, small scenes and moments which would be forever engraved in her voice, in her gestures, in her touch...  
But it was not the same. Perhaps it was the time that had separated them, or the perils they had both faced during the time that they were beyond the sheltering arms of their homeland. Or maybe it was what they had seen, the atrocities beyond words, things that left jagged scars on them, never to be healed.  
But all Legolas grew aware of, moment by moment, was that a breach had formed between them, hewing apart those two immortal souls who had once walked side by side. And all he could do was reach out, the tips of his fingers grazing air, and then folding, clenching, lacking the warmth of her skin, only darkness and wind. 

He shouldn’t have left her.

The elf drew a sharp breath, and his eyes flickered to the ground. Banishment, the worst possible fate for an elf, for Tauriel, whose spirit had been forged by the whipping of wind as she swung from bough to bough, sculpted by the scents of bark and soil , who had been lulled to sleep every night by the melody of trickling water.   
Yet, as the Battle of the Five armies had drawn to its end, he had left, walked away without the slightest token of farewell. The prince had done as his father had bid him, his mind narrowed to the one task, to escaping the cage which, unknowingly, he had locked himself in. He hadn’t begged his father to forgive her, he hadn’t stood by her side when she needed it. Legolas would never forgive himself for that.

And it was the most sinister of emotions that had led him to this, the most ashaming of motivators: Jealousy. His heart had ached, throbbed with this indefinible feeling, when a dwarf, a mere mortal, had captured Tauriel’s heart with the simple utterance of a few words, while he, the prince, had stood by her side for hundreds of years. That jealousy had never turned to fury, but still he had passively resented the dwarf for so long, rebuking his friend for her betrayal.

That was until he realised that it was no betrayal. He had always known that Tauriel’s heart was hers to command, as was his, that it belonged to no one except herself. It had been during the War of the Ring ,when his companions were wrapped in blankets of sleep, that the realisation had come to him, and the emotions he had been harbouring for so long fell to his feet. He loved her, yes, and that meant that those feelings were false, a casket in which to hide his own pain. If he had wanted her, they would have been true. If he craved her love despite the cost to her, they would have been true. But he simply loved her, and that made them as false as the lies of men.

 

“Not pleased to see you? Mellonamin, Lle lakwenien?* Your presence honours me, I believed you would not…” his voice faltered, crystal gaze searching her face for some taint of resent. 

But in stead of bitterness, he found a sudden burst of youth in her visage which made her eyes light up with lively brightness, just as if they were children once more, giggling at an unseemly joke.   
A prince. Was that all she saw in him? Legolas had once believed this also, but the War had taught him that one is not who he is born to be, but who the world shapes him to be. He may be a prince in part, but also a warrior, a ranger, a friend.   
And a friend he wished to be to her, naught else. The elf understood that they would never be anything more to each other, and though once he had harboured that hope, now it was a fate he deemed impossible, distant, and which he would not pursue. All he wished for was that they would never be anything less.

Yet, it seemed so. The wind stirred, rustling the fallen leaves around them as Tauriel swooped into curtsy. The kind a subject would give to their king, or a warrior give to their lord. Her copper hair shone under the dying rays of jaded sunlight, a halo of nobility downpoured, submitting to the rule of another when truly it should fly free, unhindered, uncaged.  
And royalty was that cage. His royalty.

“Tauriel” he murmured with a start, voice quivering as a bowstring does after fire. “Mani naa lle umien?**” With a sudden movement, his hand flew through the air and alighted gently on her arm with a touch so light it could be mistaken for a falling leaf.

Legolas felt a faint ache in his chest as she suddenly moved backwards, causing his fingers to abruptly graze air, still imbued with the warmth of her sleeve. The elf’s eyebrows came down slightly before relaxing, his expression once again set in stone, gaze sweeping the forest ahead as she pointed towards the fortress.

The prince grew suddenly wary. He hadn’t thought of this much during his journey, but had focused on memories and the contours of rocks and spear-shaped clouds, not of what lay on the path ahead. Now, he felt a small pang of uneasiness as he pondered about the meeting with the King, the man who was so familiar and yet so distant, a faraway figure encased in ice, who despite having met with him near every day, Legolas knew not a thing about. 

However, as his attention flickered onto Tauriel’s words, the elf bowed his head and took a step forwards without breaching the proximity that she had clearly set.

“What does your heart desire, Tauriel? If you do truly wish to return, I shall speak with him . After all these years he surely misses your skill, and would rapidly accept your return for the good it would do to his kingdom. Although, I cannot say if his contempt will cease, or if you will ever be in his favour as you were before.”

Legolas hesitated, words quivering on his lips, words which would convey that he, too, wished that she would return, that he felt she was the only thing that was the slightest bit familiar in this changed kingdom. She was all he recognised save for the trees and the earth. Perhaps Tauriel was all that was left of the old life he had left behind, and even she was changed, as transformed as he was.

“You may accompany me, if you wish it” he uttered dryly as he began to stride along the path, the fallen leaves rustling in his wake and forming small whirlpools in the growing dimness.

 

\-------------  
*Are you joking?  
** What are you doing?


	6. Chapter 6

Tauriel felt the smile on her face fade into something more bittersweet as she glanced over Legolas once more. It was true that he was her prince, and that above all else had to stand, but he was so much more than that and she could see it written in every line and curve of his body. He had been through darkness and shadow, seen things that perhaps no other elves had truly ever seen, and Tauriel knew that this would shape him whether he willed it or not.  
They had, at one time, breathed in perfect synchronization with each other, each heartbeat a reflection of the other, and in that unison their friendship had been forged and strengthened. Yet with all that they had seen of the world now, the deep darkness and evils that truly lingered in the shadows, Tauriel felt strangely disconnected from him. The paths which they had walked together for so long had diverged abruptly with the introduction of Kili into their lives, and it was that single dwarf who had torn asunder the closeness they had shared, throwing into discord the harmony which had existed between them. Now they stood before each other, echoes of their past selves flowing past them as they stood tall within the flood of remembrances, and in truth they were nearly strangers. Memories were all that remained to them now it seemed, and much as Tauriel longed for the friendship and closeness that they had once shared, she knew that in their return to the Woodland Realm it might never again be possible.

Unwilling and unbidden as they were, the reminder that Legolas had ultimately left her to her grief and banishment rose up in her. Tauriel had not expected the hurt of those actions to linger, having thought that she had accepted them the moment she had realized, when rising up eventually from the unforgiving earth beside Kili's cold body, that Legolas was gone and she was left with naught but banishment. The knowledge had pained her deeply, for she had not accepted the truth of it at first, asking each successive dwarf she saw if they had seen the young blonde prince, finally being told that he had been seen leaving the area on his horse. Truly what tatters had remained of her heart had been broken with that knowledge, that Legolas would stand by her side through darkness and light, until her ultimate grief and anguish was realized and he chose then to abandon her.

It was unfair of her she knew, to feel the trails of resentment towards him that she did, and yet that did not change the fact that this knowledge stood between them like an insurmountable wall, and with all that had happened she truly did not know how they could tear it down. Yes she loved him in her own way, but she wondered now whether that love had been tainted by the many years they had now spent apart. Sad, how hundreds of years of inseparable friendship had the potential to be torn asunder by a mere eighty years of deep sorrow. Yet in those mere eighty years more had happened to Tauriel than what most elves had experienced in their entire lifetime in Middle-Earth, and the same could be said for Legolas.

Her lips parted in a soft sigh, broken with a sad smile once again when Legolas asked her if she was joking about him not being pleased to see her.

_"Your presence honours me, I believed you would not…”_

His voice seemed to waver unsteadily suddenly, and it wounded Tauriel to know that she could not step forward and take his hands, that she could not offer him the full reassurances and words of comfort that would ease his fears. To do so would be to breach the boundaries that she knew had to be set, for the sake of both of them. The copper-haired elf believed, though it saddened her, that to try and re-establish bonds as they had been before could be disastrous. The loss of Kili still held sway over her heart, and it was often that she lay in agonized wakefulness, staring at nothing and wishing desperately that it had all been some wretched dream, that she would wake and find Kili alive and well. It was that perpetual grief which lingered in her thoughts now, and she knew that while companionship was oft the answer to such grief...seeking it in the arms of Legolas could lead to complications that they might never recover from.

"I do not jest, not this time Legolas." Tauriel studied him once more, pensive and slightly withdrawn once more, her mind swirling with memories of the events that had led them to this path. "When last we met and parted there was much unresolved that may have festered..." The elf-maid paused and bowed her head, sighing sadly. "Amin hiraetha. I never meant to hurt you."* She whispered softly, "mellonamin."** It was both a question and a statement, though she could not anticipate how Legolas would take her words.

As she curtsied before him, paying Legolas the homage that was owed him, she was aware of the pain this would undoubtedly cause him. Though she still would call him friend, he was her prince too, and neither of them could afford to forget that. If there had been one thing she had learned throughout her time away from her people, it had been that the boundaries which separated kings from their subjects were vitally important, though often painful.

She had not foreseen the emotion that would coat his voice as he replied to her actions however. The way Legolas said her name coupled with his question made her own heart cry out to see the way it pained him, yet what was she to do? What other path was open to them? He would be Prince of Mirkwood eternally, and she could only ever be his servant... and even that was questionable, hinging on Thranduil rescinding his command of banishment. No, this distance between them was necessary, even if it pained her deeply to keep it.

The light brushing of Legolas' hand on her arm shot another quiver of pain throughout Tauriel's body, so much could be said with a single touch and she felt the pain her actions caused in that movement, yet she hardened her heart and moved away from him nevertheless. The coolness of the air rushed over her suddenly, her breath being pulled from her lips into a soft cloud that lingered on the air for only a moment before vanishing. So fleeting, so temporal, somehow so fragile... she feared it would portend much that was to come.

Her mention of the Elvenking's Halls clearly caught Legolas off-guard, and she watched him quietly as the elven Prince's mind seemed to whirl over memories and wounds that had been inflicted long ago. Tauriel couldn't help but wonder how different things might have been had the queen survived to raise Legolas, somehow she felt that the entire wood would have been a merry and brighter place, it saddened her deeply to think of what might have been.

At last Legolas spoke, and while his willingness to speak with Thranduil on her behalf warmed her heart, it was the first part of his words that she found herself lingering on.

_“What does your heart desire, Tauriel?"_

If only she knew. At present her heart seemed as lost as she was. The Woodland Realm had acted as her north star once the war had ended, but now that she had arrived here Tauriel did not know what must come next. Prior to this moment she had been occupied, the longings of her heart not needing examination as she fought merely for survival and victory over evil. With the return of peace it seemed that life now took on a complicated hue once more, and the twisted paths that seemed to ensnare her from all sides left the elf-maid feeling alone and lost. What she had once wanted was no longer possible, and it seemed that there was nothing left to her now but to beg Thranduil's forgiveness and pray she might find her path once more.

"I need not be favoured by your father Legolas, I have no doubt that he will never feel the same affection for me that he once might have." She breathed softly, sadness coating her at the remembrance of Thranduil's hurt and fury when she had disobeyed him and threatened him. 

_"What do you know about love? Nothing!"_

There had been such pain in those words, and Tauriel had realized the error in her ways immediately after speaking. Thranduil did know of love, he had clearly loved his wife above all else...and though it seemed that her death had stolen his heart from him, Tauriel now believed that it had simply been frozen, damaged perhaps beyond full repair, but still beating there. She knew something of his pain now, and while she did not expect that to equate forgiveness from him, she did hope that it might result in some lenience from the Elvenking.

"I would gladly accompany you, Heru en amin."*** Tauriel voiced simply, moving silently to walk beside him as Legolas strode down the path. She did not know what the future would bring, all she could do was hope that she would find her way, and as a company of elves, part of the guard no doubt, melded in suddenly from the surrounding forest to escort them towards King Thranduil, it seemed her fate would soon be determined.

_________________  
 _* I'm sorry_  
** my friend  
*** my Lord


	7. Chapter 7

The barrier was almost tangible, a wall of knotted emotions that rose, impenetrable, from the ground between their feet. Legolas found himself hating it, until with sudden pain he realized that it was his doing in great part, that he himself had imbued this barrier with the friction it needed to grow, like a trickle of water led astray, only to water ivy.

Her eyes were whirlpools of pain, their starlit surface weeping hurt that no tear could ever show. He could feel the resentment, that tiny grudge that she would try so hard to bury, but that would always be there, driving yet another rift between them. He wished to reach out, to go back, to stand beside her as she struggled with her love’s death; but that time was now past, and they stood here in stark reality, so distant despite their proximity, an endless whirl that would never find its peace, even at their deaths.

Forgiveness was the most complex of things. An emotion that hissed and writhed, feeding itself slyly into the minds of all who claimed to feel it, only to reveal itself in times of darkness, a coward, a farce, only a shiny shell for bitter contempt.   
True forgiveness was rare, more precious than any gem in the wide world, more beautiful than all of the glittering caves Gimli had led him into. It was the purest of emotions, if felt truly; the one that shone with light so bright it could be compared to that which came from the Lady Galadriel herself. 

And yet, precious few creatures felt it. Legolas was not one of them, and Tauriel neither. He knew, and he knew that it would be fruitless to try and grasp at it, because all it would be would be a sharp edge of false equilibrium, a plaque of ice, shattered by a mere flick of a finger.

Truly, he had never forgiven her for Kili. And, alas, he had tried to with all his soul. He charged side by side with a dwarf, walked Middle Earth with him, until they had become so great friends that any grudge that ran in their blood had been melted. Dwarves were no lesser beings now in the elf’s mind, not anymore.  
But Kili, he could never forget. It was not the son of Dúrin himself who had inflicted the pain on his heart, but Tauriel’s dealing with him. A few words, a suspended atom of time, talk of the stars, and already her heart had flown out to the dwarf, for no reason at all but that of sudden love. At first, the prince had believed it would be fleeting, like their lives, that it would last a chip of a second and that it would all be gone.

But something had happened, a kiss of fate he would never understand. It had not been long, not in the hundreds of years they had lived. A few days was a grain of soil in the forest of their lives, and yet she had cherished that grain like nothing else he had ever seen, with such a degree of passion that Legolas would never comprehend. His friendship with her had multiplied that of the dwarf’s in time and depth as one gold coin did against all of Smaug’s treasure, yet it seemed as if it had diminished to nothing upon the son of Dúrin’s fleeting appearance in their lives.

And Legolas did not blame her for it, he did not want to. She had never owed him anything, and still she did not, but the ache in his soul, perhaps towards himself, for not being the companion she needed, was ever present. Something he could not forget in a lifetime.   
And the one moment he could have stood by her side, comforted her, held her as she fell with loss, he had thrown away in sudden bitterness. He hadn’t been there,he had simply ridden off, without giving it a second thought, and had left her to pick those pieces of herself up alone, cold, without the motherly embrace of the forest, her only companion being the ghost of her beloved.

Amin hiraetha. I never meant to hurt you.

The words touched Legolas like a nail of ice, and he took a sudden, sharp intake of breath. Soundless, the air returned to his lungs, but far more chill than before, as if shards of crystal had darted into his lungs, tearing stinging holes in his chest.   
How could he say no? How could he say it had not pained him? It had not been her doing… yet it still hurt, even after all these years. His own pride, the actions he himself had made… not her, not Tauriel.

“Nay, mellonamin. You owe me no apology…” his eyes searched for hers, but failed to find them “ Amin hiraetha*, Tauriel. I truly am. ”

The thought of his father once again entered his mind, causing a strange stiffness to descend upon the elf. He must meet with him, but the elf felt old fear paralyzing his limbs,the old freedom he had grown accustomed over the past eighty years fading away from the coolness of the forest and the icy treatment of the King.   
The last words his father had spoken to him still lay vividly in his mind, vibrant, weeping pain. The elf had turned them round time and time again, pondered on them for days until his mind had dissected every syllable, and still found nothing. It was, perhaps, one of the dearest memories he held of Thranduil.

And that was solely because it was the only time he had spoken of his mother.

Legolas had grown during the War. Not only had he learnt the darkness of the many creatures that roamed Middle Earth, and covered distances he never would have imagined, but also his mind had grown, and with it, that memory.  
No longer was he the prince who craved the touch of his mother, to hear her voice caressing the pillows of his sleep.  
She was gone, and he accepted that. He had seen many a brutal death, and so he comprehended that those who are gone from the world are gone, and that it is merciless to prey upon them, for others and oneself. It still pained him that he had never known her, of course, but that did not change the fact that he had finally released the want for memory. 

However, Legolas was certain that the same could not be said for his father. Despite showing nothing, his expression always unfathomable, the elf had seen on that tragic day a buried silence inside his father, a pain so sharp that was buried in the ice of his demeanour.

And, as if on cue, a tingle suddenly flew through the prince’s body, a vibration so deep and ancient that he closed his eyes, stopping in his tracks.  
Here came the trees’ end. And before them, mounting the hill, rose the walls of stone of Eryn Lasgalen. His home, or so it should be. Unmoving stones, and yet they were throbbing with life, with the force of millions of souls that had stepped through those gates.

Legolas’ gaze slid over to Tauriel’s face, silently voicing his concern for her wellbeing. The return must be even more difficult for her, even more painful. The prince had always had the option to travel back to his homeland and return to open arms, and yet the elven-maid had no such chance.

A guard spotted them, and hailed, ordering the gates to be opened. Without hesitation, Legolas stepped forwards, the stone platform seeming to vibrate in greeting under his silent tread. A flickering pool of candlelight lapped the edges of the metal, pulling sharp glints off the soldier’s silver armour.   
The archer’s head remained high as he slowly strode under the arch, his body now basked fully in flickering light, and orange-lit eyes fearlessly fell upon the figure of the Elvenking.

\---------  
*I am sorry


	8. Chapter 8

The polished wood beneath Thranduil's hands was smooth to the touch, the swirling patterns etched into it forming grand depictions of the Woodland Realm's long history, and yet staring down with anguished eyes it seemed to hold only tortured reminders of his past failures. He had failed as a husband, failed as a father, and in many ways he supposed he had failed as a King. For what were the duties of a king? To govern, shepherd, and care for his subjects. Yet his long rule seemed to have been filled with bloodshed and loss instead. What had he given his people but suffering and death? The creation of this great fortress had been done with the intent of sheltering them when the forest began to be invaded by shadows, a nod to Menegroth in Dorian which had been built by the great King Thingol, and yet not even these great halls had proved sufficient for their protection. So many lives lost, so many elves fallen...

Thranduil tipped his head upwards slowly to stare at the nearly unearthly beauty of the vaulted ceiling, his eyes glistening with the unshed tears that seemed to rest eternally within him, grating with knife-like viciousness against his soul.

"Mithiel..." He choked out, her very name sending flashes of burning pain searing through every bone and sinew, and with a shudder that shook his entire body Thranduil's eyes fell closed, a single silver tear escaping his eye and rolling arduously down his cheek.

If she stood here once more at his side he wondered what she would say of his failings. A broken laugh burst forth to think of her response, undoubtedly it would have been some witty jest, a mere glance that spoke more clearly than a thousand words ever could. A half sob pulled itself unwillingly from him as the remembrances of their time together bubbled to the surface of his mind, and Thranduil's hands balled up into fists, his nails digging into the sensitive skin of his palm until blood was drawn. It felt as though he had lost her mere moments ago, the pain of it... the pain. He could not bear to dwell on these memories, they would kill him, surely they would kill him.

"Our son returns." He finally whispered softly to the air, his eyes fluttering open once again, more pain glowing in their depths than seemed possible for a living being. She had been his world, his life, his everything... and yet ultimately she had chosen to die for the sake of their son rather than stay with him. Legolas had been her greatest love when it truly came to choosing between them, and Thranduil had come to realize that the knowledge of her heart on this matter had led to unwilling resentment against their son.

In a bitter, jealous, grieving corner of his mind Thranduil had blamed Legolas for the death of his wife. There had been moments when, while looking at the blonde elf-child, the Elvenking had nearly hated him. The love of his life should have been the one at his side, and even now Thranduil knew that given a choice between Legolas and his wife... he would likely have chosen her.

Gladly would Thranduil have sacrificed his life for Mithiel, even now his love for her burned as fiercely as when he had first known how his heart felt for her. Much time had passed since she had left him alone in this unforgiving world, and somewhat bitterly the Elvenking knew that the feelings that burned in his soul for her would never fade. He was cursed with a love for Mithiel that consumed him, and thus every heartbeat spent apart from her now wounded him.

As though brushed by the hand of his dead wife herself a sudden onslaught of memories shook Thranduil. The moment he had first held his son, the bond stronger than mithril which had formed between father and son in that moment as he stared down at the tiny babe. The moment when Legolas first walked, his eyes shining with pride as he toddled mindlessly to his mother's arms. Such happiness and joy had there been in those days, all of the Woodland Realm had glowed with it, this fortress carved in the mountain not yet built, as no shadows could dwell in a land of such peace. Then the war had come, and all joy for Thranduil had been taken. Snatched away alongside Mithiel.

Another shudder shook the Elvenking, but he forced himself unsteadily to his feet regardless, trying to ignore the deep ache in his chest and the rawness of his throat. His grief was of no value, it was something that he alone was burdened to carry, as it would always be.

Straightening Thranduil pushed the pain deep inside himself, feeling it shatter like shards within his heart, almost able to see the jagged wounds that her loss had left on what tatters remained of his broken heart. And those small bits of love that still disjointedly existed within him were reserved for his son and his people. 

Slowly the Elvenking began to walk down the hall towards the mighty stone doors which would admit his son to him, not knowing whether he would be able to maintain even a modicum of composure. Unasked for the ice around his heart had melted as it did on occasion when Thranduil's strength of will weakened, but this time he could not hide himself away through the excuse of "hunts" or the like, no, this time he would see his son for the first time in eighty years...without the protection that shielded him from further hurt.

For he had loved too deeply, and when his beloved had left him she had left him a broken and haunted elf. A mere shadow of his former self, and to love like that again could kill him.

The Elvenking came to stand before the great doors, one hand sliding into a secret pocket within his robe, fingers curling around the polished surface of one of the fabled White gems of Lasgalen which formed his wife's necklace. Hard won had this beautiful treasure been, the last thing that belonged to Mithiel and his only reminder of her, it had not been until after the Battle of the Five Armies that he had reclaimed it. Thranduil had hoped it would ease some of his pain, and yet... he still felt hollow, even when touching the necklace that would have belonged to the Queen of Eryn Lasgalen.

With great sorrow Thranduil realized that in his zeal to once more hold some physical vestige of his wife's, he had neglected to see her flesh-and-blood legacy which had been created in Legolas, his pride and unfounded anger against his son had blinded him. Now the Elvenking no longer knew how he could be reconciled with the son he had pushed away, whether he could re-build the bridges he had torn down, but Legolas was all he had left and he had no choice but to try.

The gate opened and the Elvenking nearly trembled with anticipation and hope, his entire body growing utterly still as his eyes fixed on the growing pooling of light that flooded in from outside the gates. Then suddenly a blonde elf stepped through the opening, tall, proud, and strong, his weather-worn clothes a telling sign of the journey he had been on.

Word's escaped Thranduil, and he stood instead in a stunned silence, watching Legolas approach silently, surveying his son with a mounting grief that escaped all conceivable understanding. No longer did the carefree and youthful boy he had known stand before him, no, now the elf that stood fearless before the Elvenking looked every inch a prince... and it grieved Thranduil.

In his stead Legolas had now seen more darkness and pain in these brief eighty years than most elves saw throughout their innumerable years spent in Middle-Earth. The elf before him was a warrior, a survivor, and a prince... but most importantly he was Thranduil's son.

"Ionneg..."* He shook his head, his voice trembling slightly though he willed it not to, taking a step closer to his son. "Nae saian luume'"** The Elvenking took in a long unsteady breath, his eyes roving the face of his son almost desperately, one part of him struggling to hide the depth of emotion which this reunion caused within him, terrified of what rejection from Legolas might do to him, the other longing for his son to see and understand the love he bore him but had never truly expressed.

He could only hope that Legolas might find it in his heart to forgive him.  
_________  
* my son  
** it has been too long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,  
> Firstly, thank you for reading this fanfic, and for the lovely comments!
> 
> My deepest apologies for the very, very late update.  
> May It Be was written as a collaborative piece, one person writing from Tauriel and Thranduil's point of view, while I wrote from Legolas and Mithiel's ( Mithiel is the name of Thranduil's wife).  
> Though we did get fairly far into the story, and had the following chapters planned out, the other collaborator hasn't been able to continue writing it for months now. Since we haven't been in contact much, I didn't want to post the chapters we had already written without her approval, but we were planning to publish them all on here anyway, and after seeing that people were reading and commenting on this fic, I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. Therefore, over the next few days I'll be updating this with the already-written chapters.
> 
> However, it is unlikely that the story will continue after that. I have absolutely no idea whether the other writer will want to return to working on it any time in the future. If she does, then we will update as soon as we've written something.
> 
> I hope you enjoy these chapters,
> 
> -L.


	9. Chapter 9

For a brief moment Tauriel let her eyes flutter closed, starlight stirring beneath them as she exhaled softly, a world of colour and light flashing briefly behind the closed lids. There had been pools, deep pools untouched by evil or malice, hidden in the heart of the mountains she had travelled. To these places of pure magic and beauty she had been taken, and what she had seen in those pools had forever changed her.

A kaleidoscope of colours had greeted her, some of which had no name and could never be expressed, the glistening waters reflecting the breadth and intrinsic magic of the sky in their depths, somehow conveying an understanding of the cosmos beyond Tauriel's comprehension, here in pools that had never seen the night-sky for themselves. Tauriel wondered if Eru Ilúvatar had Himself created these pools...to give breath and life to the mountains which protected them. 

In viewing the pools awe and wonder had been woken again in her, and though they had not healed her broken heart the pools had given her sudden clarity. Thus in times such as these, when her heart ached and she knew not which path to take, she turned to the memories of the pools which steadied her. It was a precious gift, that much she knew with all her soul, and yet not one to take lightly, for Tauriel knew deep in herself that she was now as tied to the pools as they were to her, and that would undoubtedly have great implications on her life. Already there had been moments of terrible visions, with death and flame roaring from the sky, hot ash sticking to her skin as she was burned into nothingness by the terrible heat. What messages these visions truly portended she did not know, but her sleep was no longer easy and an edge of her heart was always weary.

She wished for rest, for peace, and yet the only times she felt even a modicum of that was when she thought of Kili and the future that they might have had. However brief it would have been, somehow Tauriel knew that it would have been filled with joy and love enough to last an eternity, something beautiful and precious that was worth more than all the treasure and wealth of Middle-Earth. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes to think of, and the loss of that future hit her deeply. Unsurprisingly then, the peace that her imaginings wrought were short lived, and always she was sent crashing to reality in greater pain than before. No one could truly understand, not even Thranduil, who had at least been given some time to spend with his love, and certainly not Legolas, whom had never had a chance to truly understand the depth of this sort of feeling.

So cold, so dark. Behind her eyelids those first feelings that had haunted her when she first cradled Kili's corpse came back to choke her, stealing the breath from her lungs. Everything had hurt, she had wished for death in that moment, grieved the fact that she still lived, and had felt the briefest flash of hate for Legolas, that he would save her and force her to live eternally separated from Kili. Then she had learned that Legolas had abandoned her, and between the loss of Kili, the loss of her dearest friend, and the loss of her home... Tauriel had felt a crushing hopelessness that had held sway over her heart for many years.

How reckless she had been in those early years. She had sought danger with relish, accepting each challenge with broken-hearted gladness, praying that she might face insurmountable odds that might lead to her death and a reunion with Kili. She did not know where the spirits of the Dwarves resided, whether it was in Arda or elsewhere, but she trusted that Eru Ilúvatar would not be so unkind as to part her from her love for all eternity, he was the father of them all, and as a father he surely cared for the needs of all his children. Still, as time had passed she had known in her heart that Kili would have grieved to see her this way, yet it was not until she first beheld the pools that this madness fully ceased.

Another sigh parted Tauriel's lips, and she opened her eyes to look once more at Legolas, hearing his words with a heaviness of soul that threatened to choke her. The elven maid felt as though she were slogging through thick pits of tar, every step working herself deeper into danger, when all she longed for was release.

He apologized to her, the friend she held so very dear to her heart, even through all the pain that lay between them, and truly Tauriel did not know if she could fully bear it. Her will crumbled, shaken by remembered grief and an inescapable need for companionship, foolish as it was to seek it in a prince.

Breaking the boundary she herself had set, Tauriel stepped close to Legolas, her left hand fluttering open, the palm lifting to rest lightly and gently against his cheek. It barely made contact with his skin at first, more like the brush of a butterflies wings against a flower petal, but slowly she cupped his cheek more fully and let her eyes search his, grief, loss, and humbled gratitude glowing in the depths of her starlit eyes.

"Diola lle."* She whispered brokenly, needing him and hating that she did, for if she awoke the feelings he had once held for her she did not know what she would do. Tauriel was damaged and she knew this, her heart shattered into pieces and scattered on the wind, to love another seemed impossible, an afront to her very soul, and yet she could not bear to break the heart of noble Legolas again either. He deserved far better, and she wished happiness for him more than anything, and she did not believe that she could be the one to make him happy, not in her broken state.

Tauriel felt tears rise to glisten in her eyes, and abruptly she stepped away from Legolas, turning her head and averting her eyes in the hope that he would not see them. Tears were not a weakness, she knew that, but all the same she did not think she could stand to release the full grief that still rested so heavily on her heart. It would be unfair to the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen, and she would not burden him so.

Straightening with a forced smile, Tauriel nodded to him, as though signalling she was alright when in reality that was incredibly far from the truth, and she continued to walk swiftly beside him.

They were returning home at last, and yet for her the return was filled with a fell sense of dread and fear. This was her home, and always would be, yet there was every chance that she would not be welcomed here, and Tauriel felt that to be turned away now might reduce her to nothingness.

With a fast-beating heart Tauriel tentatively followed Legolas through the mighty stone doors as they opened to admit them, keeping her eyes fixed on the green of his cloak lest she look into the eyes of the guard and see pity written there. The Prince of Mirkwood had stopped abruptly just inside the door, and coming to stand respectfully behind him, the elf-maid risked a brief glance at the Elvenking.

She saw great pain there, suffering and grief, relieving Tauriel with the knowledge that at least for Legolas this reunion might prove sweet. She knew better than to interrupt their meeting, and fell silent, clasping her hands before her and staring at the ground contritely. Whether Thranduil would pardon her or not she did not know, but for the sake of Legolas she found it in herself to feel at least somewhat happy. Managing a sad smile as the father greeted his son, she sensed a wealth of meaning and emotion contained in the words Thranduil had uttered, perhaps more than Tauriel had ever seen him express.

Oddly it reminded her of her own loss, and her heart keened sadly in her chest as she saw, in her minds eye, the cold body of Kili lying buried beneath the earth, lost to her forever, and a single tear glided down her cheek as she contemplated that.  
__________  
* thank you


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of skips back in time a couple of chapters from Legolas' perspective, and then works its way back into the present.

Something had caressed his cheek. At first, the elf thought of it as a gust of wind that had, by chance, curled around his skin in a sweet cup of warmth. And yet it was winter, and the breeze was not warm  
His eyes met Tauriel’s for a split second, so surprised that he felt a layer of stillness inside him quiver, as if about to break. That moment seemed to last forever, hanging in the air, in the scent of moss and sky, as if nothing would ever shatter it, frozen in time as they were.  
But shatter it did, as a bird swooped out from underneath a bush, warbling a shrill song. Her hand withdrew, and the elf found that stillness inside himself once more. Without a sound, he turned away and continued walking.

As the path eddied and curved in front of him, Legolas felt a growing sensation of uneasiness. He had once been accustomed to run these very paths, they had been a segment of his life, the road that led him from one place to another, from rest to the hunt, from war to warmth. But now, all that the elven prince felt was that they were leading him from freedom to a cage of ice.

His father had never been a loving creature. Or, at least, not that he recalled in his lifetime. His eyes had always been cold, haughty, distant like the white moon on a freezing night, and his demeanour ever icy with conceit. The King had rarely treated his son any differently than he did his subjects, and the times he had shown some sort of affection were not warm, devoted moments, but rather the bestowal of trust on a confidential matter.  
His father had never seen him as a son, but as a loyal warrior, someone to be greatly trusted in a time of need. And, truly, that is what a prince must be. It was ever his duty to serve and protect the King, no matter what the cost, and Legolas had fulfilled that duty readily and without fault.  
Some part of the young elf, however, had still craved fatherly love. It was a fleeting emotion, one that assaulted him sometimes when he would ride to nearby settlements and observe the plain farmers carry their children on their shoulders, or guide their hands to the bow hoping that one day they would become part of the royal guard.  
It had been wrong to hope for it, Legolas knew that. But as a young elfling, he seemed to not comprehend the true depth of his father’s duty, and had fancied himself an ordinary inhabitant of the Greenwood, had wished for a love so strong to bind them together, a bond of family.

But such could not come to pass between the likes of Kings and Queens. The duty of a monarch was to their people, so that they could take pleasure in loving others without a single thread of fear for their own safety. A King could not afford to love naught but his kingdom, lest his obsession grow too strong and drive him mad with carelessness, and the protection of his ancestors fall into ruin.

Legolas had observed this many a time during his dealings with men, and resented their foolishness. In their short lives, it was not affordable to give another soul their entire devotion, to be blind to everything else that passed before their eyes. Aragorn was a good king, and a wise man, for he knew the balance of love he could afford to bestow upon his wife and son while still not neglecting the wide array of duties that appertained to him.

And that was why the elven prince did not resent his father. He had once, but that time was long past. After he had fully comprehended what it meant to be King, that grudge had faded, dissipated like a handful of sand in the wind. Love was something secondary, and Legolas admired the Elvenking for his coolness and prudence. He was a good ruler, and his reigning time had been perhaps one of the most dangerous Greenwood had faced. Thranduil had borne his duties with precision and selflessness, and although many lives had been lost, had prevented the loss of their homeland, protecting their people with a sure hand.

And Legolas himself may have to bear that duty someday. But it would not be any time soon, and now he intended to guard the King’s wellbeing with all his heart, having returned stronger and more experienced from the War. It was all he could do, to continue being the loyal subject he had once been, but being a better servant, more skilled, with his heightened abilities and knowledge being more useful to the king than any other amount of encouragement.

And as the Elvenking walked towards him on silent feet, poised as ever, and their eyes met, Legolas felt his soul shudder as if shaken by an earthquake, which caught him unprepared and caused him to halt abruptly, searching his father’s eyes for some trace of the coldness they had once exhibited. But now, all the elf could see was an abyss, and he was falling into it, engulfed by something indescribable, so profound that his body could not assimilate it, in the same way that a man looks on the longevity of elves and cannot fathom the extent of their memories.  
His father’s expression was always a mystery, but usually it was a cold one, sharp and impenetrable, like a wall of ice. Now, it was just dark, colourless, a pool of endless depth. Legolas felt his heart clench as if a gauntlet of metal had wrapped around it, squeezing the life out of it, and all that he could do to stop his life force trickling out between those metal fingers was to harden it, make it of stone, to block out any feelings that may arise.

And harden it he did. His father seemed softer, weaker, as if that coating of ice that was ever present in his being had began to melt, and was now cascading to the ground by his feet, forming puddles that would cause him to slip and fall into the depths of whatever sorrow he felt.

Legolas could not let that happen. If the King’s emotions were overcoming him, it was his duty to help rebuild that ice, not contribute to fusing it. However much he had once craved his father’s affection, now was not that time. Too much had passed between them to leave place for emotion, and if the elvenking’s heart was crumbling, the prince could not be responsible for wielding the hammer that made it collapse entirely.

Lonneg…

Son. His son. How rare it was to hear that from his lips, how precious that one word had once been to the young elf… but now it meant nothing but that his King’s emotions were being lead astray. Not due to the word, but the feeling that poured from those eyes, eyes that were almost brimming tears.  
He must not respond in the same fashion. Though in apparent peace, the world was still unsteady, and Eryn Lasgalen needed its King to fix the wounds that festered in the heart of the kingdom , far more than Legolas needed a father.

“Heruamin”* the elf stated, not coldly, but assuredly, bowing his head in a token of respect. “I hope you are well”

\------------  
*My Lord


	11. Chapter 11

Fingers of wind rippled through the closing gap of the great stone doors, dancing briefly with the candle flames before dispersing into the cavernous mouth of the great entry hall. The Elvenking stood, perfectly centered, with every ounce of poise and grandeur befitting his royal status, yet this composure did not reach his countenance.

Thranduil's face held an ocean of emotion, the cool blue of his eyes speaking without words, intense pain swimming in their depths as he beheld his son again. He was broken, had been broken since the day Mithiel abandoned him to this life, but for the first time his son was able to see it...and this terrified the Elvenking.

Always he had protected himself, buried his heart in the coldest of ice, that he might rule and lead without allowing the pain to drive him mad. Yet in doing so he had driven Legolas away, worse, he had never shown his son the love that was due to him. 

Thranduil knew that if his wife had been here to stand by his side she would have undoubtedly raged at him for such callousness, for brutalizing the one thing he had had an opportunity to cherish and nurture. Instead Thranduil had ripped the relationship between father and son up by the roots, tearing asunder the bonds that had been created during the prince's infancy, and finishing this ill work by throwing aside the love of the blonde elf-child that had longed for his Ada.

Many times Thranduil had longed to turn to his son, to take back the hurt he had caused, to simply say amin mela lle, ionneg.* But the words had always stuck in his throat, refusing to make themselves heard. It was true that in turning to his son he might have found relief from the jagged tearing of his heart, but what if he did not? If the ice were to melt fully the Elvenking could very well have been driven mad instead, his mind thrown into the abyss, as grief and anguish came to collect their claim on his soul.

For once Thranduil found he could hardly summon the energy to care about his sanity. In body he may have been young, but his soul was so very old, so very tired. He needed something to grasp onto, a solid weight upon which to lean on, and though he had relied upon nothing but his own strength for so long, trusting in his own power to hold him upright, now he no longer believed that it was enough. His very soul that was crumbling. So much loss, so much death, and Thranduil was so very weary.

Yet how could he expect his son to see him as a father? To bestow upon the Elvenking the love which had been withheld from Legolas in the first place for so long? It was irrational and unfair, to expect such a thing from the blonde Prince, and yet Thranduil found that he hungered and yearned for it. So much had been lost between them, so much, and while attempting to reclaim and rebuild some of that which he himself had broken might prove impossible, he had to try.

The words of the King of Eryn Lasgalen hung in the air; hopeful, desperate, and yearning. The emotion in his ordinarily cold voice causing the guards to cast uncertain glances at one another. In fact the entire hall seemed to grow breathless, though for Thranduil he saw and heard nothing but the deeper blue of his son's eyes, watching the emotions that played across his face with the same intensity as a gambler on a crucial dice roll. He did not know what Legolas felt towards him, and a large part of the Elvenking feared what would come next.

"Heruamin. I hope you are well”

The reply of Legolas seemed to curl about Thranduil like dragon-smoke, choking him, clawing itself with burning relentless malice down his throat to fester in his lungs. It was rejection, an ultimate rejection of the desperate hand which had been extended towards the prince, and the Elvenking was wise enough to see it for what it was. Even the respectful bowing of Legolas' head spoke to his complete rejection of the love which Thranduil was offering him, the chance to rebuild the relationship they once had had, and it broke his heart.

Thranduil's shoulders slumped, feeling the fractured pieces of his heart shatter further. He had lost his wife and now he had lost his son. All that remained now was an heir to the throne and a loyal subject to a king. Neither of which were the things he truly needed, nor the things he wanted. The Elvenking could feel himself growing untethered from the ground on which he walked, a strange waning of spirit sucking him downwards into a mire of endless grief.

The crowning of Legolas could very well come sooner than expected.

Taking a half-step back from where his son stood, Thranduil pushed his emotions away from where they were written on his face, burying them deep within as he always did...though this time there was no ice to protect him, and instead the feelings screamed and burned against his unprotected heart, butchering and slicing as they went.

There were no words that Thranduil could think to speak, no reply which could be managed to address his son. He was alone, shattered and alone within a prison of his own making, and it dawned now upon the Elvenking that he himself had thrown away the key when he had rejected his son in the first place.

"You will find your chambers as you left them." The elf managed to choke out, the words rebelling against him as he fought to reassert his weakening will over himself. "There is to be a feast tonight, to celebrate your return. I advise you make yourself presentable before then." His voice was cool and measured, but the countenance which spoke them was dulled and barren, what life had lingered in Thranduil's eyes appearing to have been snuffed out.

A flash of copper hair behind his son caught the Elvenking's attention, and realizing it was Tauriel he felt his heart clench once more in pain. She had known something of his suffering, though for Tauriel the love she lost had been a mere spark and not a long-burning fire, and unusual compassion rippled over him. Thranduil knew that he was lost, but perhaps he could save the elf-maid from the same fate.

"Tauriel," her head lifted with a jerk to stare at him, her eyes wary but glowing with a newfound wisdom that had not been there before. "I lift your banishment and welcome you once more to your home." He murmured softly, his words carrying musically through the air with an undertone of great sadness. "Prepare yourself for the feast and find joy." The Elvenking finished, turning away without another word and without seeing her response, his shoulders once more proud and king-like, the only betrayal of his broken state being the stark lines of crimson blood which still dripped from his palms.

When at last Thranduil was alone, entombed within the chambers he had once shared with Mithiel, the Elvenking sank slowly with despair to his knees.

"I cannot bear it..." he breathed weakly, and with a keening moan that seemed to rise directly from his agonized soul, the memories he had kept locked and buried for so long at once broke free of their cage and flooded through him with merciless force.

* * *

Swift feet raced lightly across the forest floor, each step finding it's place gracefully against the ground, the entirety of the earth seeming to call a welcome to the passing figure, his feet cushioned and buoyed by the dirt beneath his feet as he ran.

The Prince of the Woodland Realm moved with all the ease and elegance of royalty, the only thing to mar this picture of perfect nobility being his bare feet and the unpolished glow of delight that shone through his eyes. He was free, truly free in these moments, unfettered by his responsibilities as a prince, merely another elf at one with the forest.

An exclaiming laugh of pure joy rippled forth and lightened the entire path over which he flew. In moments like these Thranduil felt as though he could fly like the birds above. There was such beauty, such delight, to be found in the timeless bosom of the woods. He knew that he could close his eyes and race just as surefooted as he did now, trusting the forest to guide him as it always did. This was his home, his heart, and it would perhaps be his kingdom one day as well. 

He vowed in that moment to protect and cherish this land with all the strength he had for all of his days.

Then suddenly the handsome elven prince broke through the treeline and into a meadow, his even stride faltering and breaking as his eyes beheld a sight that halted him entirely. An elf-maid, her eyes touching his like beams of pure starlight, stood in the midst of waist high wildflowers. Never before had Thranduil beheld something so lovely, and he stepped towards her in utter awe, unable to believe that he had never laid his eyes upon her before.

"Lle naa vanima..."** He sang to her, a smile breaking like the dawn across his face. "Who are you, arwen en amin?"*** He queried, stepping ever closer to her, his heart beating more swiftly and strangely as he drew near to her. Something within him had woken, and in a brief flash of clarity he knew with utter certainty that he would never wish to be parted from her.

Thranduil understood quite suddenly what his father had spoke of one night, while the young prince had lay curled in bed, listening while Oropher had softly told him of the breadth and depth of love, the intricacies and indescribable beauties of that singular emotion. The way his father had spoken had been bittersweet and tender, remembrances of Thranduil's mother falling like spring rain over the young prince's ears, and had made him wish for such a love himself.

Now, standing before this elf-maiden who shone brighter than the heavens above to him, Thranduil felt certain that he had found the other half of his soul...though he did not know her name. That thought brought a large beaming smile to the prince's face, he knew he was about to dive headlong into the greatest adventure of his life and he thirsted for it.  
______  
* I love you, my son.  
** You are beautiful  
*** my lady


	12. Chapter 12

The very ground seemed to shudder, a calm sea with a raging seastorm underneath, as if the sturdy stone itself were tilting, breaking, and yet they couldn’t move, their feet planted firmly on the cold rock, falling with it, unable to save themselves.

Then the pain in his father’s eyes subsided, as if a forest fire had been quenched with a mere utterance of a word and left a barren landscape of charred trees, lifeless yet existing, grey smoke clogging the air and choking anyone that dare walk through it.

And Legolas could feel the breath start to leave his lungs, despite his willing it not to, he could feel those nails of pain that seemed to claw at the Elvenking’s eyes, scraping with desperation to escape, to tear that veil of ice and let the oceans of pain pool out, slide down his porcelain cheeks and wet the ancient stone at their feet. And yet the elf’s eyes remained strong, despite the whirlpool inside, and the prince slowly observed as the claws retreated back into their cage only to leave a myriad of unshed tears swimming in the glassy orbs.

Abruptly, a word formed in his mind, just one word, sliding down his throat to perch upon his tongue, writhing to be free.  
Ada.  
Could he not have addressed him as father, even if only the first time they saw each other in eighty years? Could it have been a fatal mistake, one that broke the bonds of trust, to have called him Heruamin?

He remembered the sudden quiver of pain that had shot through him when Tauriel had addressed him as such. Who was to say that his father, despite the frost that enveloped his being, had not felt that same sting? Though barely ever having confessed love for his son, it was perhaps the only way he could stay transfixed on his duties and perform them precisely and justly. As a King… perhaps it was the only way he could not dwell on something that pained him, a hurt so strong that…

The breath caught in Legolas’ throat with sudden realisation. In all the years spent in these halls, in all the times he had followed his father like a shadow, there had not been one time when it had hit him so clearly, a shooting star, a sudden flash of white.

It was her.

The elf could not remember his mother’s face. He never had. As a child, in the dead of the night, he would hold onto the bark of a tree and climb, unable to reach from bough to bough, but clinging to the trunk like an insect. He would slip and graze his arms, and yet the small elf never gave up, despite knowing that if the elders ever spotted him, they would surely despair in a frenzy of shouts.

Once he finally reached the highest branch, he would perch on it, his back to the rugged and patterned bark, and stare up at the stars that peeked with curious eyes behind the swirling haze of the clouds. They watched everything, the movement of every single leaf in the forest, guarding over its inhabitants, the eyes of the heavens. And the elf child would stare up at them, and ask them to speak of just one memory, for all of them to move at once, a myriad of shooting stars, and arrange themselves in the shape of his mother’s face, so that he might remember her, so that he might have one last memory of her features etched into the light of the skies.

And yet, however many times he climbed the tree, despite his growing agility, all Legolas could see was the random, mottled pattern which revealed no face at all but that of chaos, and then they turned red, and for once the tiny dots of orange light did arrange themselves into a shape, but not the one of Legolas’ desire. No, these ones darted in electrifying light until they formed a bleeding eye that bore down on the forest with flaming rage, and burnt and shriveled the tops of the trees, and then their trunks, turning them to death and mirk.

But these thoughts were ones of the past, and it would serve nothing to dwell on them. He must be the strength his father lacked, a guardian to protect him from harm. That much he knew. What he didn’t know, and struggled to find in his heart, was whether iciness would help heal Thranduil’s jagged heart, or whether he should let it weep in sorrow until those wounds were so cleansed that they were barely visible, and then help it rebuild it, memory by memory, until the King’s soul stood tall and true, unbroken, with no need for a coat of ice to keep it from crumbling.

Ada… 

He felt the word forming on his lips, stroking the tip of his tongue, and yet it refused to leave his mouth, as if bound by some invisible chain, the chain of unfamiliarity. How he longed for his father’s eyes not to be dimmed by that smoke, even if they were cold and distant, as Legolas could not even with the hardest of hearts bear the pain that swam in them.

But he could not be his son, either. That was a relationship that only had one moment and chance, like the hunting of a stag. If the arrow wasn’t released at the right moment, the fleeting creature would be lost forever in the depths of the forest,impossible to find again.  
And Thranduil had missed that target, the hundreds of years of childhood and youth that he could have been a father to. He had ignored them, ignored the cravings of a child, and there was no way of going back. Even now that he himself felt pain, he could not ask his son to give him the love that he himself had been deprived of.

“Diola lle*” the prince murmured with another inclination of his head, and without another word glanced back at Tauriel and strode into the cold stone vaults that were once again his home.

\----------  
*Thank you


	13. Chapter 13

The falcon’s feathers shone golden in the setting sun, the light rippling with its feathers in waves of silver and orange as it spiralled upwards, and then down, plunging through the heavy summer air in swoops and arcs so perfect that Mithiel thought she would never see anything as beautiful in all her life.

It saddened her, how their lives were so short; barely fifteen years and then they were gone, their feathers no longer gleaming with life, their onyx eyes dulled to granite forever. Why should a creature rooted to the ground deserve their life a thousand times over, when they were so meaningless, stuck to the same stretch of land lest they travel and grow weary every footstep? Why were these creatures of beauty condemned to a life as short as that of a candle, when they seemed to be shaped for the world, their wings sculpted for the air’s arms, their talons carved to indent stone, their eyes polished to see further than the seas? Why had Ilúvatar not chosen these beauties instead of elves, who were merely men whose longevity had been prolonged, and thus, their wisdom enhanced?

All these questions swirled in her mind, and yet Mithiel could find no answer to them. Her father called her foolish, he demanded that she cease wondering and start knowing, for who else would tend to the household once her parents were gone?  
This thought terrified the elf maid. True, she had been raised to the chanting of wise elders who would recite over and over the fundamental bases of wine trading, how to speak to the men of Dale if times were harsh. She had been told how many servants she must employ to assure that the palace was polished and presentable at all times, and how much hay to demand from the fields of the east so that the steeds would not grow hungry in winter.

But she had been told. She knew not how to rule, how to do so without the guiding hands of her mother and father. Oh, yes, she would have counsellors, but Mithiel knew that she must trust no one fully, save herself.  
And she didn’t know if she could do that.

With a half contained sigh, the elf drew a breath of the thick scented air, and assuring herself that the deceased rabbit hung tightly from her belt, stood from the rock she had been sitting on. Summer’s sunset arms embraced her fully as she tilted her head upwards, scanning the amber tinted sky in search of her falcon. A haze of forest dust swam between her and the heavens, charged with the soft smell of baked oak and flying pollen, so that at first she thought it must be this causing her elf-eyes to fail in their usual duty of spotting her companion.   
However, after a full minute of turning on her own heel, gaze scanning every inch of the sky, her heart gave a small thud of fright. He was no longer there.

Ravon would never leave, Mithiel knew that. Thinking that perhaps he had caught sight of another hare and plunged down with open talons to seek it, the elf inserted two fingers in her mouth and whistled, the harsh warble sending shivers through the field’s soil. 

Nothing. Not the golden sheen of wings, or the familiar rustle of feathers as he glided to perch on her arm. Surely, it could not yet be time? He was barely eight, and though the huntress was aware that time would always outrun her friends no matter how fast they flew, she knew in the depths of her stomach that it was not yet his time. He must have been attacked by something larger… but no, Mithiel would have seen its shadow over the flats of the field. The only possibility was that Ravon had fallen, that his wings had locked in a sudden spasm and that he had plummeted to the ground, with nothing to cease his fall save for the mantle of flowers…

With a start, the elf maid paced towards the beginning of the cluster, and scanned it with narrowed eyes for any sign of a gash in the mosaic of white and lilac. Yet this was in vain, for she knew far too well that these flowers were as flexible as the wood of her bow, and that they would have sprang back to their usual position had anything fallen atop them.   
Mithiel let out an angry hiss. The light was fleeing fast, and the field stretched all the way to the end of the rolling hill, rippling and swaying in the slight breeze. Ravon was there, and she couldn't leave him, but she couldn't also spend all night combing through these ghastly flowers until she found her falcon.

“All the days of hunting, and he must choose precisely the one we stay till sunset?” she growled with fuming anger, shaking her head and plunging into the waist-high field with little care to her cloak, which abruptly decided to billow out in the wind behind her, rippling like a war flag. Where could the keen-sighted bird have landed, if not anywhere? He flew at such a vast height that his small body could have plummeted down in any place, and be laying only a few feet from her or a whole mile away. And there was nothing she could do, except comb the entire field in the wilting light and hope that the great skinwalkers did not decide to hunt between the flowers once night cast its veil upon the meadows.

Mithiel froze as her sensitive ears abruptly betrayed to her the sound of a sharp breath being drawn. In a heartbeat, her bow was in her hand, and as she turned she tensed the string, the arrow between her fingers aimed surely at whatever was behind her.  
Her eyebrows came down in utter surprise as her gaze took in the sight of a young elf, silver-blond hair streaking his face, staring at her as if he had seen the light of the Simlaris themselves. 

Lle naa vanima… Who are you, arwen en amin?

She felt her eyelids quiver in surprise at this, causing her to blink, assuring herself that he wasn’t just a mirage borne by the hazy air. His boldness was… surely, he had read too many tales of old, and thought that he could walk upon an elf maid like that, and compliment her on what he thought was beauty, and then ask her her identity. It was a far too stupid, or threatening, thing to do. Mithiel didn’t trust him, and yet she was the one who was armed while he seemed like some unearthly figure of perfection imbued in the body of a wild wood elf. Thereupon, her response was measured and bold itself.

“I know” 

She let the two syllables hang in the air, one eyebrow raised in a gesture of defiance. How could he think he could lay eyes upon someone and speak of their beauty, demand their identity, without knowing who they were or where they came from? Surely, he must have been raised by the trees themselves, for no elf she would ever allow herself to spend time with would ever think he could talk to her in such a way.

“Oh! Creature of the heavens! Long have I waited for your arrival, being of pure beauty, so that you would bestow upon me the knowledge that I am not in fact hideous, oh mighty son of the Valar!” Mithiel chuckled carelessly at her blasphemy. “Surely, you must be the child of so great an entity that should bestow upon you the right to plea for my name and position. Gladly, I should give it, if only…” her sentence ended in a sharp sigh, one that glided and shot through the air like a dart. “If only my arrow weren’t so closed to being released… Beleger*, my arm doth ache with the tension, I am certain that if your highness does not step aside, it may release itself with sudden speed and impale itself in your smooth pale throat. Heru en amin.**  
\--------  
*Mighty one  
**My Lord


	14. Chapter 14

Ragged breathing pierced the air, an erratic tempo that cut harshly through the stillness of the lonely chamber, and the mighty Elvenking sat crumpled in the midst of the great room, his form appearing weak and empty, swallowed in the vastness of the royal robe he wore.

There were so many memories, so many joys, precious gems that shone brighter than starlight in his mind, and yet each tender recollection had now been steeped in poison over the years...and the remembrance of them burned like fire in his blood.

"Mithiel it hurts..." The Elvenking whimpered, feeling suddenly small and lost, a young elf-child separated from his home with no inkling of how to return. How he longed for the touch of his wife's hand against his shoulder, such a small gesture but one that was also so incredibly potent. To be able to twine his slender fingers with hers and know that whatever pain that came, they would face it together.

She had been his sun, his stars, the very light by which Thranduil could always find his way home... and with her loss he had been plunged into an effervescent darkness that permeated everything around him. The forest alone could bring him a measure of peace, and even that was tainted. 

Oft, during the moments when the Elvenking escaped his halls to run free through the forest as in days long past, he could forget for a time that he had been left to walk this earth alone, but always he would find himself falling into step with paths that they had ran together, and once more he would be reminded of his grief. There was no relief to be found anywhere, and at last it seemed that even his relationship with Legolas had been destroyed.

"What is left for me?" The Elvenking breathed weakly, his pale-blue eyes fluttering closed as he tipped his head to the sky and exhaled shakily. He had heard of elves whom had simply faded from this world, bowed by grief until they could bear it no longer and their spirits simply gave up. How tempting such a thing seemed to be to him now... perhaps he would once again be joined with Mithiel, that thought alone was almost enough to drive Thranduil to embrace death. Many times he had stood on the edge of a great precipice and stared into the abyss, wondering if at the bottom he would find Mithiel's countenance staring back at him with a smile.

Yet the King of Eryn Lasgalen had never been able to take that final step. Always a soft voice seemed to wreathe around him, telling him 'no' so firmly that he could not bear to go against the voice upon the wind. Besides, his people needed him, and among the many other things Oropher had taught him, the lesson that it was his duty to be a servant to his subjects had always been most strongly enforced. Yes they would bow before him and offer their lives to save his, but in return Thranduil could not simply follow the whims of his heart, he was required to sacrifice his desires for the safeguarding and care of his people. It was something Thranduil had vowed to uphold as sacred, and he never made a vow in jest.

Forcing himself to his feet the Elvenking stared into the polished glass which had been wrought so elegantly into a delicate silver frame. It hung in a place of honour on the wall, a gift to Mithiel from a travelling merchant from Dale whom had requested safe passage through the Greenwood. In it's crystal clear depths his reflection stared back at him hollowly, a shell of the mighty elf whom had once been reflected there with such surety and peace.

He was king, that was an unalterable fact, and there was a feast that he had to attend... in honour of the return of a prince. Not a son, but a prince. Closing his eyes briefly Thranduil pushed the pain back once more to the edges of his mind, ignoring their pointed teeth which ever threatened to sink into him, for he was the Elvenking, and he could not allow himself to be owned by his grief.

The spined crown of rowan-berries was lifted delicately from where he had, presumably, thrown it down, and Thranduil placed it on his head, feeling the weight of it sit more heavily than anything else ever had upon him. He dusted off his robe and secured it, deft fingers brushing carelessly along the silken material until at last he felt himself to be presentable. 

Raising his head the Elvenking stared into the mirror and was saddened by what he saw there. A fierce countenance, hardened and cold, regal and wise beyond measure, and yet in the corners of his eyes there still lingered a semblance of grief...and to that small betrayal of his inner heart there was no cure. He could not bury that part of himself, try though he might to hide it, and instead Thranduil could only hope it would not be seen.

Striding to the door, all vestiges of weakness gone, he threw it open and whirled down the halls with fierce elegance. He would be regal throughout this feast, a king to be both feared and loved, leaving nothing to be seen of the heartache which he truly felt.

Jubilant laughter and song rippled underneath the twin doors which Thranduil fast approached, the sound of it grating like an arrow against battered ribs, and he clenched his teeth briefly before sweeping gracefully into the large feast hall, an even smile splayed across his face.

The memories attacked him once more, and the Elvenking knew better than to try and fight them off, letting them strike against him instead as he straddled two worlds; the present of pain and the past of joy.

* * *

At once the elf-maid seemed to realize that she was being watched, and Thranduil felt his broad grin widen as she drew her bow and aimed it effortlessly at his heart. This was no frightened maid in need of saving, she was as capable of fending for herself as the mighty eagles of the sky, and this quickened his heartbeat further. Every rose had it's thorns, and hers seemed sharper than most already, a welcome change from the simpering elf-maidens of noble blood who often fawned over him.

As Prince of the Greenwood his marriage was expected to be one that bespoke of his own royal lineage, and yet Thranduil had never been interested in the characterless maidens his father sought to pair him with. They were dull, tamed, like the caged birds of men that were kept merely for their empty songs and pretty feathers. He wanted something wild, an untamed west wind that would howl at him and fight him tooth and nail, a maiden who would chastise him for his blunders and tell him if she felt he erred. None of these things had been exemplified in those of the fairer sex which his father had presented him with. Not until now.

“I know”

Her answer thrilled him. There was no simpering, no giggling, none of the foolishness that would ordinarily accompany such a bold statement. Instead she stared him down as though he were an uncivilized dwarf, her tone haughty and defiant, clearly seeing him as far less than a prince.

He was surprised that she did not recognize him, surprised but oddly pleased. For once Thranduil was not encountering responses that were filtered and carefully chosen, modulated to befit the son of Oropher, instead these were her true thoughts, and it was a freeing feeling.

A chance to reply to her simple statement did not make itself known, for before Thranduil could open his mouth she had slid into a tirade of her own. The words she uttered were haughty and brazen, a threat as much as a rebuke. Yet oddly he did not fear her, though undoubtedly he should have, her words and the menacing arrow were proof enough of her seriousness. Perhaps Thranduil was a fool, yet if this was what it meant to be a fool then he would gladly accept the title.

Plucking an exquisite wild lilac from just in front of him, Thranduil twirled it in his hands and stepped towards her, one hand up in surrender as he moved, continuing forward until at last he stood right before her, the arrow's tip touching his chest.

"Arwen en amin,"* he began, his voice breathless and musical, "I am no mighty son, nor am I worthy to even speak to you, and yet your beauty strikes me like the sun above. Thus I spoke not for your benefit but for mine." He murmured smoothly, the hand holding the lilac moving to rest over his heart in a salute. "I could scarce believe such beauty could exist, let alone that I might one day be so blessed as to behold it."

Thranduil's eyes twinkled with faint mischief as he stood before her, his voice lowering into a soft intimate whisper as he spoke what very well could be his final plea. "If I were not granted the honour of knowing by what name such loveliness is called I should long for death regardless, so if you do not wish to tell me your name...then please, I beg of you, pierce my heart with this arrow for my heart has already been so pierced once today, and I should sooner join my ancient kin in Valinor than live not knowing you."

* * *

The tide of tender memory was shattered abruptly as one of the Guard suddenly broke breathlessly into the Feast Hall, his eyes wide and frightened, searching out the Elvenking and once finding him, resting there with desperate pleading.

Thranduil rose to his feet slowly, eyes narrowing in anticipation of whatever ill news the guard bore, for there could be no other reason to disrupt the festivities so abruptly. The entire hall had fallen silent, all eyes resting on both the King and the Guard, every heart was clenched in automatic fear, had the Dark One returned? Was their victory naught but some hopeful dream that had not truly been accomplished? This was the question that rested on every mind, and Thranduil was hard pressed to quell the niggling fear inside of him.

"Speak." He commanded regally, his words burning with the force they carried and prompting a sub-conscious straightening of every back in the presence of the Elvenking.

"Yes my lord," the guard began weakly, his words flowing suddenly as though a dam had been broken. "A gathering of orcs has been reported in Angmar, and according to these sources they are led by an elf of some evil kind, their intentions being marked as utter destruction of Eryn Lasgalen and acquisition of what treasures are kept here." 

This was dire news indeed, and Thranduil's heavy brows knitted together unhappily. Though a patrol of orcs could undoubtedly be dispatched without great difficulty, the news of an elf leading them was far more disturbing, and it held the possibility of much evil and carnage against his people. He would not allow a single drop of elvish blood to be spilled, not again, not now.

Nodding brusquely to himself Thranduil inclined his head gratefully towards the elf and spoke in a clear voice, his words carrying effortlessly throughout the hall.

"This is disturbing news to be sure. I will not risk another bloody war," he shook his head, "a butchering of my people. No, I will go myself and dispatch of this elf who leads them. Without their leader they will be powerless against us, and you, my people, can rest once more in peace." The Elvenking's mind was set on this course and he would not be dissuaded from it. Turning once more to sweep his gaze over the assembled elves, lingering on the face of Legolas and Tauriel, he sighed softly once and then his eyes hardened yet again.

"Ready my elk and provisions for the journey, I will leave ere the sun fully sets, and Ilúvatar willing I shall return before the seasons change."  
______  
* my lady


	15. Chapter 15

A sharp exhalation of warm breath tickled the tip of her nose before her lips tightened, forming a straight line that, according to her parents, granted her whole visage an expression of distorted anxiety. Mithiel didn’t have a care in the world for it, however, what she was worried about was the young elf that stood tall before her. His words had been foolish, yes, but there was something about his presence, something that reverberated through the floor between their feet, a kind of white tension, as if too much light had been imbued in too small a space. 

And that light seemed to illuminate his face with sudden certainty, as if mutely signalling to the random stranger who had seemed to be led astray by some path of fate. Or, perhaps, he had been guided by this very bright whiteness, the path he trod on etched in silver grey like the threads of his tunic. The elf felt her eyes, unwillingly, travel from the petals of the flowers to his figure, poised joyfully yet almost regally, in a wild alloy of freedom and elegance which she felt reach out to her own spirit as the nock of an arrow feels for the bowstring. 

His features were fine, linear eyebrows overcasting eyes of the purest silver which seemed at that very moment to be shining brighter than mithril. Thin, pale lips tilted upwards in an infatuated smile, and yet somehow it granted a palpable texture to his face, one that lit his eyes so that instead of cold metal, they seemed to have the warmth of a sword’s sheen straight after being forged in a fire. 

And as he began to speak, this fire and light sparked and flickered with augmented luminosity, his voice paced, musical, the ringing melody of a smith’s hammer as it forged the metal of his eyes, wreathing them into beacons of melodious fortitude. Mithiel felt her heart thump against her chest as he began to approach, taking a measured step backwards and then holding her ground. 

This, her mentors hadn’t taught her. Of course, there had been a large number of courtships due to her heightened position, mostly males who thought themselves worthy of wedding a woman solely based on the fact that their armour glowed more than the most meticulously polished bottle of wine, and that they were strong enough physically to hold twice the amount of barrels a usual vine worker would be able to.

Mithiel cared not for these things. She had laughed , yes, feigned mild interest and even flirted with them, and yet all of those were in some way false, a charade that she could slip into as easily as anything else. It was her area of expertise, the talent those around her valued and laid their faith in with all honesty. The elf maid was the manipulator, the jester, the softener, the one whose words would be listened to in any place or time. It was her only useful talent, it seemed, to imbue her voice with either honey or venom, to charm or disarm.

But for once in her life, the elf was at loss for words. She could feel him move towards her, long fingers delicately plucking a flawless lilac, causing the tiniest of sounds to skim through the roasting air and to her ears, filling them so loudly Mithiel felt her lips loosing grip of each other and falling apart in a mildly shocked expression.   
The wild spirit seemed to weave through every stalk and petal without grazing a single leaf, his body lithe and willowy, silver eyes always upon hers. The elf maid felt her own suddenly become hot, and she blinked, her gaze sinking to the floor in sudden embarrassment. Why did her tongue stick like lead to the roof of her mouth? How could this be, that she could not allow the sharpest of all weapons to wield its blade, to cut this elf down right where he stood, to make him retrace his footsteps through the flowers, to be lost back through the trees, so that never again she would have to hear the almost noiseless pad of his footsteps, or feel that vibrant glow enveloping her very soul each time he took a step forwards, like water lapping the shore. Neither would she have to set her eyes upon that molten gaze of polished steel, or feel, as she felt now, the very tip of her arrow pushing against his chest, prodding the soft flesh as if it were her very hand laying there.

With this thought, Mithiel abruptly moved sideways, not ceding a millimeter of space, but rather circling him with observant eyes and a feigned air of carelessness. However, her mind was alert to every word he said, searching with desperation for the trick, the lust, the greed. Some unfortunate fellows had even been manipulated into flirtation, and the elf lady had made sure they had a heightened knowledge of how to defend themselves before they left her presence.   
Yet this elf, so poised, yet so free, a smile so innocent and void of the creases and lines that divulged worry and want. No, he was almost too unrealistic to possibly be real.

“You lie” she murmured, yet Mithiel knew that the very words that escaped her lips were what she used them to accuse of. Biting her bottom lip in a gesture she had not used since she was a child, the elven maid slowly lowered her bow to her side, fingers flexibly entwining around the arrow, yet without putting it in her quiver. 

“If you wish to see beauty, watch a sliver of sunrise pour blood red over the purity of a mountain’s snow. If you wish to offer it a flower, let the tips of your feet graze a void when you stand at the edge of a cliff, and let the whipping wind speak to you with the sole demand of something as small as what you hold. If you wish to behold true beauty, you shall not seek it in the unknown and the fleeting, but in that which shall remain with you till the day in which you are no longer in this world - yourself.”

His wrought eyes now flamed sparks of mischief and energy, and Mithiel found her slowly growing assertiveness falter at his next words. Something parted within her, coldly, as if a shattered bone, and abruptly she was before him, their faces inches apart, her eyes scanning the sculpted features of his visage before fixing on his gaze. 

“And why should I, an elf you have not seen once in your life, inspire such a feeling? You have lived every day of your life without the merest knowledge of my existence, and now you are the personification of hunger itself? I know nothing about you, and the same can be said for me. Perhaps, I shall allow you to be by my side for as long as it takes to search for my falcon, as you have already robbed me of precious searching time.” 

Mithiel frowned, and then spun on her heel, trudging with little elegance through the flowers. After a brief flutter of her eyelids, her fist clenched, a smile shuddered to her lips without warning, and over her shoulder she shouted: “He is grey and brown!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've probably guessed already, this work's title is based off the title song from The Fellowship of the Ring, by Enya. Fun fact: Almost every one of these chapters was written while listening to the piano version of that song. On repeat. For hours and hours.


	16. Chapter 16

The warmth and tumult of the party engulfed him like water, washing a fresh sense of contentment over his soul and yet feeling strangely hindering, as if a blanket of the heaviest and stuffiest material had been draped over his head, so large that it was impossible to find the edges and escape into clean air. True, it instilled a simmering warmth in his being, and yet it was as though his lungs struggled for breath, toiling for even the tiniest thread of the dry, sweet smell of Rohan, or the crisp iciness of the Misty Mountains. 

In all these years, Legolas had forgotten the spirit of Woodland feasts, the brightness of the fruit and the aroma of freshly opened wine. Celebrations hosted by men tended to be far more coarse and loud, let with a strange familiarity to them, and now the prince felt himself floating in some sort of boiling veil of mist that was occasionally pierced by a sole figure, or a group, murmuring greetings or praises to which he would respond modestly and mechanically, his voice silky with force.

Abruptly and without warning, the King burst through the double doors in a flurry of robes, a dour expression seeming to sour his face under the placidly smiling lips and unmoving cheeks. His father was as poised as ever, regal, and yet Legolas could feel it in the air, something that no one else in the room seemed to perceive. He walked surrounded by the feeling that is produced upon the strident shattering of glass or the shrill moan of a dying animal, and despite the velvety impersonality that surrounded his actions, Legolas felt his eyes travel to the Elvenking every small interval of time, observing his features in subtle worry. All seemed well, and his father was as majestic as ever. All these years, and Thranduil had learnt to keep his mind focused and cool, revealing nothing, a resource and figure to his people who was ever faultless in his duties. So why now, at the corners of his eyes, could the younger elf glimpse dripping ghosts of tears?

Legolas’ wandering thoughts were violently splintered as the door flew open on its hinges and a flustered messenger communicated his message to the King. He appeared to be shaking more with exhaustion than with fear, and yet the elven prince abruptly felt something clench in his stomach, a sickening feeling which he had only experienced during the War grovelling in his insides, twisting bony fingers around his soul. There was something carried in those words, not the intention of the speaker but the spirit of them, the truth that had wafted from one tongue to the other, from the cliffs of Angmar to here, in Eryn Lasgalen. The elves around him rustled, and Legolas found his eyes travelling to Tauriel’s in search of the irrational distress he himself felt. 

It was a type of morbid intuition, and even as he told himself this threat would surely be easy to eliminate, a pang of uneasiness ran through him, causing a shudder to ripple through his lithe body. That is why, when the Elvenking abruptly stood, seeming to preside over the room with haughty wings of bravery and protection, and announced that he himself would be fighting the threat to avoid the loss of more lives, Legolas gave a small start, rising abruptly from his chair as Thranduil strode from the room with the same surety he had entered.

The prince made not a sound as his feet carried him swiftly to where his father was now leaving the hall, and came to a halt beside him. There was no fear in his expression, but neither any of that ice that had wreathed his being since times long past. There was sorrow, yes, and wraiths of needles that caused the steel eyes to melt, bleeding remnants of fortitude.

Perhaps it was this that caused the warrior’s hand to fly out, piercing the silence of the stone-frozen halls, and land softly against the meticulous fabric of Thranduil’s tunic. A sudden gash of pain seared through his heart, so fast, so painful, that Leglolas felt his throat clench, and he gulped fiercely before his fingers shuddered and released their touch, hand falling abashed to his side. 

“Heru en amin”* he felt his tongue falter at the utterance of the title, and yet the elf did not attempt to correct it. “If you should allow it, I will gladly accompany you on this quest, as I feel that it is my duty to aid you, most of all in times of trouble.”

The prince raised his gaze slowly towards that of his father, surveying it silently yet with unmoving sturdiness. This tenacity had been shaped by his time with Gimli, as dwarves were renown for their strong will, and Legolas did not regret a mite of it. Perhaps the King would refuse his aid, and yet he knew that he would continue to persist despite receiving a clear negation. This was what he must do, and there was no creature in Middle Earth that could change his resolve.  
\---------  
*My Lord


	17. Chapter 17

Shards of pointed glass shattered with merciless cold, the sharpened edges exploding throughout Thranduil's veins with utter indifference to his pain. Crimson rivulets beneath his skin pulsed rhythmically, and yet the Elvenking could have sworn that his blood was turning blue and sluggish within, an early frost that caused all life to whither up and die as the roots curled up in agony against the bitter cold. He was akin to the great trees of Lothlorien in the fall; mighty and strong, standing tall and proud with the golden glow of perfect Elvish beauty...and yet, and yet he felt as though an evil force had watered his roots in liquid ice. Slowly, very slowly, it was causing him to whither from within and die. To the outside world this slow degradation had not been visible for thousands of years, a hidden killer that was unfathomable among the beautiful proud boughs of the mighty tree with its golden leaves, and yet with the announcement that Legolas had returned a crack had slithered up through the bark, the wound weeping softly with the lifeblood of the tree. Thranduil could cover the wound with golden leaves, rend it insignificant compared to the majesty everything else about him inspired, and yet to the careful observer the glistening edge of spilled lifeblood could be seen, even if only for an instant. Oh how much cause the Elvenking had to lament and hate the dark things that slithered below, tainting and murdering everything they touched. That same darkness had taken his precious Mithiel from him all those many years ago, and in that act had set the poison down to curl within his belly, to eat away at the mighty king until he too could bear it no longer and fell into shadows with his wife. The difference, of course, was that unlike the Elvenqueen he had no recourse to deliver the final blow that would be the climax to his suffering.

For a single moment in time, a fractured second that hung on the air for a timeless period while also being more fleeting than the heartbeat of a hummingbird, warmth and hope descended together upon the anguished king in the form of his sons hand landing on his arm. Everything came to a crashing halt in Thranduil's mind, nothing existing in that sphere of time except for the air between them and the distant wailing hope that perhaps they could find some way through the stormy sea of their past. The Elvenking had a purpose for the time being, an enemy which he could slay for the sake of his people whom he loved better than all else...save for the love he had lost and the son he had driven away, and yet he would forsake all his kingdom if it meant a chance to show his son the love he had always withheld. Yet it was not to be.

Hope was snatched back as swiftly as it was offered, the biting pain of it sinking its teeth deeper into the unsteady roots that bound Thranduil to middle-earth, the brief warmth that had sent a pulse of his old youthful vibrance through him being stomped underfoot once more. The prince of Eryn Lasgalen wished to accompany the king on this quest, a fulfillment of duty being offered valiantly to the lord to whom it was owed. Thranduil supposed he could try and reject the wish of Legolas, to tell him no and order him to remain with their people and care for them instead of the king, yet he knew it would do little good. Legolas had inherited all the stubbornness of his mother, with a good measure of iron will from his father, and to forbid him would mean to invite him into greater danger through skirting those commands.

"So be it." Thranduil uttered quietly, regret lacing his voice even as he spoke with an undeniably cool tone, refusing to meet his sons eyes for fear of what he may or may not find there. There were some things Thranduil knew he could not bear, and to see indifference or obligation in the eyes of his only child would surely break him. "Gather your things and provisions for yourself, we leave before the sun sets." If there was bitterness in the Elvenking's voice then it was audible only to Legolas, and he did not wait for an answer before sweeping away from his son at a resumed frenetic pace, intent upon gathering what supplies he would need and getting on with this journey. Anything to take his mind off of the cold expression looming in his imagination that had undoubtedly been mirrored in the countenance of Legolas. 

***

Delicious warmth suffused every corner of the Prince of Greenwood's body, an unadulterated delight blooming within him as the fairest elf in all of middle-earth began to circle him, in the same way as a wolf circles a stag that may yet kick and do some harm. Her flaming tongue which seemed to be a deadly weapon in and of itself lay sheathed for the time being, and Thranduil stood still and quiet, allowing her to size him up and praying that she would not see fit to flay him where he stood.

It seemed, at least, that the elf-maid did not decide to kill him at this time, for the first words she uttered in reply to his utterly sincere declaration was that he was lying. Brows furrowing slightly, Thranduil felt faintly wounded at first, yet all it took was one searching survey of her face to see that she did not believe her own words, and the tugging of her teeth against her tender bottom lip warmed his heart to bursting. She was like a little elf-child in that moment, facing some unknown entity and trying to make sense of it yet failing, and he wanted nothing more than to take her hands and assure her that he was not something to be feared and that he wished only that she would never leave his side. Wisdom prevailed however, and knowing that a statement of that nature would likely frighten her more than anything, he stood still instead and continued to quietly watch her, flower still proffered by his slim and elegant fingers. 

Blue eyes, turned to liquid silver in the fading light, watched the maiden hopefully as she slowly lowered her bow, still seeming extremely wary of him and rather disgruntled in the same moment. There was an admittance in that gesture, an acceptance that he was speaking truthfully from his heart, and in accepting his words she had made herself undeniably vulnerable in a way that surely was discomfiting for her.

“If you wish to see beauty, watch a sliver of sunrise pour blood red over the purity of a mountain’s snow. If you wish to offer it a flower, let the tips of your feet graze a void when you stand at the edge of a cliff, and let the whipping wind speak to you with the sole demand of something as small as what you hold. If you wish to behold true beauty, you shall not seek it in the unknown and the fleeting, but in that which shall remain with you till the day in which you are no longer in this world - yourself.”

A slow smile tipped the edges of Thranduil's lips upwards, and a musical laugh rippled through the heated air. It was not a condescending nor mocking laugh, but rather one of true unbridled amusement that held no malice but only joy.

"So you would advise me, hiril vuin,*" he rumbled from where he stood at a respectful distance, "to seek beauty in that which lasts forever and offer to that my gifts and adoration? Well," and here his eyes sparkled with even deeper devious mischief, "if I am not mistaken you are as immortal and elven as I, and I would far sooner have you remain with me till the day I am no longer in this world than be alone to walk that path. Alas, I fear I appreciate beauty in myself far less than beauty in others, and I cannot forever stare at myself, I believe that would be somewhat unbecoming." A rakish grin broadened the smile on his face, and bowing his head in subservience to her (without taking his eyes off of hers) Thranduil finished with a simple sentence. "And as for giving my adoration and offerings to the beauty of this world...you may be right in saying such things, yet I would still sooner worship the exquisite design of our world alongside someone else whom I could share my wonder with."

His words had, it seemed, struck a nerve with her, for abruptly the beautiful elf-maid pounced in front of him, their faces mere inches apart as she seemed to search his countenance desperately for...something. The prince could only hope that she found whatever she searched for. The words she spoke, so softly and very nearly against his lips, wrought an answer that was pure and straight from within his heart, even if only to answer her indirect demand that he aid her in the search for her fallen falcon.

"I have lived every day without knowledge of your existence yes, and for each of those lost days I shall now weep bitter tears, for they are drops into our eternity that I can never again regain and rectify by being in your presence. Yet if you will allow me... I would not waste one more minute, or hour, or day in trivial pursuits apart from you." It was a bold statement he knew, too much for a first meeting, and yet Thranduil felt as though he had stepped into a song of such beauty and wonder that he could do naught else but try to bind himself to it eternally...even though his exuberance had the chance of driving her further from him.

In truth she did turn from him and step away, the increase of distance between them tightening Thranduil's heart painfully in a way he had never before experienced, and yet she threw hope back over her shoulders with a smile and the short sarcastic description of her lost friend. “He is grey and brown!”

Chuckling in his stead Thranduil shook his head and called back to her in equal playfulness. "A useful description, I'll do my best to differentiate him from the many other falcons which are currently littering this meadow!" So with a small smile the prince of the Greenwood began to search for the falcon, feeling a strange surety in his soul that they would find the bird together and in doing so begin a journey that was altogether new and exciting.

***

"Sire! Hîr vuin!"** The voice seemed to erupt through a darkness so black that Thranduil could not, at first, find his way out of it and back into the light of his halls. The melodic resonance of the voice grated against his ears like a dragons roar, an unwelcome call back from the place of remembrance laced with self-hatred and grief that he struggled more and more to escape from. It seemed that his reality was beginning to shift, he was fading from this world and falling into one of mist and shadow, a darkness that terrified him enough to try and escape it even as it ensnared the Elvenking and pulled him deep down into the maw of agony and despair. Yet as Thranduil found himself clawing his way back from drowning in his own remembrances to the physical realm that he was lord of, a queer thankfulness for the untimely interruption tugged at his heart. He feared that one of these days he would not be able to drag himself back...and when that moment came he would be lost to Middle-Earth forever. The only hope for the Elvenking lay in finding a reason to fight for life again, and given the fact that he had essentially now lost both his wife and his son... he did not know where he could find that hope again.

Pausing in the swiftly paced stride which Thranduil had adopted as he had swept out of the feasting hall, the Elvenking blinked his eyes once to clear them and found himself staring into the visage of one of the younger elves of his guard. He was a tall and beautiful elf, clearly talented if he had found his way into the guard at such a youthful age, and yet there was a quiver of fear in those same young eyes that caused a distant pang in Thranduil's heart.

"Yes?" The Elvenking rumbled softly, seeing the reverence and devotion in the elf's eyes that in this moment seemed misplaced.

"I wish to join you on your quest as well hîr vuin, to protect you till my last breath if necessary!" This request was voiced with a mixture of pride, loyalty, and fear. It was the latter emotion that tugged on Thranduil's bruised heartstrings however, and in an unusual moment of affection he placed a hand sturdily on the younger elf's shoulders.

"What is your name?" He asked gently, seeing the widening of eyes and awe that accompanied his gesture with faint sadness.

"Gelluinir is my name, my lord." The elf whispered softly, and the Elvenking nodded quietly, giving the shoulder where his hand rested a light squeeze.

"You are young Gelluinir, too young to be polluted by the evils wrought in another age. You may have fought in the Battle Under Trees yet you have not seen the evils I have seen, and I go to a place of darkness where no light can reach. It is not a place for youth, no matter how well-intentioned. Remain here with my people and keep them safe, in doing so you serve me best and do me far greater honour." Thranduil rumbled authoritatively. There was precious little the Elvenking could do for his people beyond what he had done already and would continue to do for all his days, and yet for Gelluinir he found a sliver of redemption in sparing the young elf the utter horror of Angmar.

He would not go so far as to say that this gave him hope, for Thranduil knew that it was only a matter of time before the poison within him killed the tree, and yet for the briefest of moments he wondered if in sparing the youth of Eryn Lasgalen the same pain he had endured he might find a broken sort of purpose. At the least it gave the Elvenking a measure of peace to see how young Gelluinir straightened and nodded with shining eyes, willing to give up his thirst for a valiant quest on the orders of his king. True there was relief in those eyes as well, yet Thranduil knew without a doubt that this noble young guard would have followed him into the blackest pit in Mordor if he had asked him to, and that knowledge was enough for Thranduil to be content.

He watched as the elf strode away with a puffed up chest, the small words of praise and direction Thranduil had offered being enough to give the youth a purpose and pride. The lithe body and golden hair reminded the Elvenking suddenly of Legolas when he had been that age, and feeling a crippling blow land against his heart once more he turned and blindly resumed his walk towards his chambers as though he were being chased. What might the same sort of kind word and simple gesture meant to his son? What might one simple touch have changed? He could not help but grieve deeply at the thought that he had driven Legolas away so coldly when he might have just as easily have given his own child some affection, and what would it have cost him? Nothing. 

"I should have been the one to fall Mithiel." He breathed with anguish into the cold and unfeeling air.  
______  
* my lady  
** my lord


	18. Chapter 18

A sea of laughter and merriment swirled about the feast hall in the same manner as an all-consuming hurricane, yet Tauriel felt oddly untouched by the unbridled delight around her, in fact she felt like the eye of the storm. Within the fair elf-maid there was cool calm and collected resolve, elegant poise mingled with a soul deep sadness that could not be reached by the festivities around her. She had been through far too much, grieved too deeply, and been alone for too long to truly be able to partake in the same carefree whimsy of the other Woodland elves. Instead the smile that graced her face was one of sad remembrance and faint melancholy. What right did she have to laughter and feasts when Kili lay dead and buried beneath the great weight of the mountain of Erebor? It seemed selfish and callous to go on in joy and happiness without him, a tainted blessing that she could not accept without feeling guilt.

There was so much that might have been, so many joyful paths that they might have walked together. It was true that Kili might only have lived a hundred years beyond when she had met him, but those mere hundred years could have been filled with an eternity of blissful love. Tauriel could not say for certain how it was that she knew this to be true, but there was a soul-deep conviction within her that told her that those stolen hundred years would have been enough to last throughout her eternity. Truthfully she felt cheated, cheated out of the life that she might have had and the joys that could have been. Kili had been taken too soon and with far too much cruelty. There had not even been a chance to say goodbye to him, to tell the dwarf that stole her heart that she had loved him too. Kili had gone to his grave without hearing the words of her heart, and worse, he had died in the attempt to save her.

An unsteady breath pulled itself unevenly from between her lips, and Tauriel's eyes fluttered closed briefly as she fought to keep her placid smile in place. She had fought to reach Kili's side, to fight beside him and save him if she could, instead he had saved her from wretched Bolg, and in the process had been slain himself. Oh how her grief had risen in that moment, becoming a living, breathing, thing that threatened to choke her and drag her into shadow. She had wanted revenge, a chance to slay this foul thing that had taken away her love from her, the beast that had killed her heart with an invisible blade even as he pierced the chest of Kili... and Tauriel hadn't intended to survive it either. 

When she had pushed Bolg and herself off of the ledge on which Kili had been taken from her, Tauriel had whispered a soft goodbye to the world of middle-earth. It had been her intention to kill Bolg and herself in that single moment, to perhaps be reunited with the one she loved in the afterlife. Instead the fall had not been great enough, and neither Bolg nor herself had succumbed to death. Tauriel's will to live had vanished however, in committing to the step that would take her from this world she had given up her willingness to remain there alone, and with the revelation that she still lived... Tauriel had wanted only for Bolg to finish what he had started. But it was not to be.

Legolas... somehow it always came back to her childhood friend, to the mighty prince who had borne her such an inexplicable love that she had not been able to return. He had saved her life, protected her from Bolg, and yet in doing so he had condemned her to life... a punishment that was far worse than anything else. Tauriel had wanted to die, and yet Legolas had not seen that... or perhaps could not see it, and had instead done the only thing she would have begged him not to do. She could only surmise that he had realized his mistake when he found that she had dragged her battered body back to the dwarf she loved, that she was bowed in grief and dead inside, her only chance for peace having been denied her. And then Legolas had left her, had run away to the Dunedain while she lay broken-hearted on Raven Hill. His actions had wounded her, hurt her in a way she had not thought possible at the time, and the many tears she later shed alone in the darkness had been shed in part for the loss of her dearest friend and his change of heart towards her. Still, Tauriel could not find it in her heart to hate him or be truly bitter, Legolas had done what he always did, the thing he thought noble and right to do. He was led by his heart, as she had been, and to condemn him would be unjust of her.

All of these memories had been pushed tightly to the back of her mind, locked away where they could not hurt her, and Tauriel had thought that the wounds had healed somewhat in the many years that had passed. She was wrong. It still hurt, her tender heart bruised and ragged, the agony of her loss as fresh as though she had held Kili's lifeless body in her arms mere moments ago. It seemed that returning to Eryn Lasgalen had done nothing more than rip away what vestiges of protection she had created to insulate herself from the pain, and now she feared she was alone. There was no one to comfort her, no one who knew her grief and could share in it, there was only her own agonizing remembrances.

Briefly her eyes shifted to glance at the prince, seeing in him a discomfort and ill-ease that seemed to match hers. Legolas appeared to be no more attuned or relaxed with the festivities than she was. It seemed that the two of them had been through far too much, seen too much of the foul things spawned by darkness, to be capable of feeling any sort of kinship with the carefree wild hearts that spilled out mirth and laughter here in these halls. It did not soothe the elf-maid, but rather made her grief grow deeper. Tauriel could have taken comfort in the knowledge that at least the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen was at home once more, but instead it seemed that both of them were uncomfortable and in great discord with their once joyful home, and thus she could not even smile a true smile to see her friend happy... for he did not appear happy and she did not know why.

At once Thranduil burst into the hall, a frenetic and frightening energy about him that reminded Tauriel of an animal that had been caged, the poor creature suddenly released into the wild and brimming with majesty even while being tortured and consumed by shadows. In the Elvenking she saw a glimmer of what her future might be, of the darkness that might once again threaten to swallow her and make her its prisoner. It had been in the moments after Legolas had left that Thranduil had spoken his last words to her, when the Elvenking's heart had inadvertently been laid bear as he revealed that he alone understood her pain, and she would always remember the brokenness that had dwelt in his eyes. It caused Tauriel to feel both a strange kinship and a degree of aversion to the mighty king that she could not fathom. The memory of his banishment of her, a ruling that stood coldly even in spite of her broken heart, drummed up bitterness in her that was not easily assuaged. Thranduil could easily have changed his ruling, have welcomed her back to Mirkwood with open arms and shared their grief with each other. He had been a father to her in many ways, and yet when she needed him most he too had turned and fled... just like his son.

Throughout her musings Tauriel had almost missed the arrival of the breathless messenger, yet she heard enough to understand the threat, and when Legolas sprang up and went to his father's side Tauriel stood as well. For a brief moment she hesitated, knowing that whatever she decided in this moment would shape her future in ways she could not understand, and yet loyalty to both her king and prince pushed her forward regardless of her trepidation.

Light feet skimmed almost noiselessly against the carved floor of the feast hall, the eyes that watched her passage going unnoticed as Tauriel swiftly approached the two proud elves. She heard enough of their conversation to know that Thranduil would allow Legolas to accompany him, and yet there was a strange charged atmosphere in the air around the father and son that she could not truly understand. Still, when Thranduil swept away without another word it was to Legolas that her attention turned.

"Hîr vuin..."* Tauriel murmured softly, her hand reaching between them to breach the distance and touch his shoulder, but hesitating uncertainly in the air instead. They were two misfits in a kingdom they no longer knew, and yet she feared what attempting to bridge the gap between them would do to them. Once more she felt as though she stood at a crossroads with two uncertain paths to choose from, and yet the path which seemed the safest was also the loneliest, and Tauriel was so tired of being alone. "Legolas..." she finally breathed, his name rolling off her tongue like a song that had at last escaped from the ensnared beak of a lark. It felt so good to say his name, unfettered by restraint or distance but voiced instead in the tone of a friend and one who deeply cared. She was prepared, all the same, for a rebuke from the golden-haired prince, for him to turn to her and correct her familiarity, yet in that moment Tauriel could not find it within herself to regret her brazen behaviour... no matter how much its repercussions might hurt.

"I will come with you. I have had as much experience as you in battling the foul things forged by the Dark One, and I would not have you take this quest alone." She voiced gently, not asking for his permission since his answer would not change her resolve or actions anyways. True, Legolas would not be fully alone, for he would travel with his father, yet Tauriel sensed with her deep intuition that they would both have need of her ere the journey was done, and she was set on supporting her prince and king no matter the cost to herself.

A faint smile pulled its way across her countenance as she searched Legolas' eyes, hoping beyond hope to see a spark of the old familiarity and friendship they had once shared... despite all that had happened between them. "I know that there is much that we... that we still must speak of," her breath was drawn out long and slowly from her parted lips as she fought to keep her emotions in check, "but I had hoped that for the sake of your father and the safety of Eryn Lasgalen we might stand beside each other once more... even if only to end this threat against the elves of this kingdom." Her soft green eyes studied his blue ones uncertainly, wishing she could read his face and mind as easily as she once had been able to do, yet time had seemed to morph his face into that of a familiar stranger, and she could read it no better than she could read her own.

__________  
* my lord


	19. Chapter 19

The world had always been a mosaic of events, some pleasant, others not so much so. It had been molded together by the paste of sensations: touches, smells, tastes, that would forever linger in the shelves of her eternal memory. And this mosaic's dappled tiles, much like the coiling body of a serpent, were sewn together by fine threads of words, fractions of sound that held in their stead a mote of meaning, and when pieced together would cause the colours in the ever-moving tessellation of her life to shift and swirl like the mingling of paints, and form a concrete, smooth surface that lacked jagged crevices through which eddies of knowledge could escape and be lost forever.

Yet the words which had been uttered to her were not threads, they were not drops of meaning that added a filling colour. They were a sudden maelstrom of scattered starlight, one that descended upon the carefully arranged pieces and sent the composing particles spinning, fluctuating like a cluster of dandelions upon a tempest. Their once sharpened and polished rims broke away from each other, spiralling vertiginously, and through the marred gaps that were left seeped glistening liquid of the skies, so cold, so distant, and yet seeming to pour with the grace of a waterfall into her life, flooding her mind and sending a placid and electrifying flood through her entire being.

And this starlight seemed to seethe into the ground under her feet, causing tiny pools of condensed euphoria to be cradled by the cupping arms of fallen leaves. Despite not making a sound as she stalked from tree to tree, Mithiel felt as if she were somewhere else entirely, wading through endless layers of a dark liquid mottled with stars, and not the russet carpet that now coated the ground as far as the eye could see.   
For the Greenwood was now at autumn, and still, those words uttered under the baking veil of summer followed the elf like a curious and clingy bird, stirring the air around her with wisps and whispers, and in return she allowed those to take her, she allowed them to bask her mind in fine blankets, like clouds, and transport her to another place, to a field of enamelled flowers. As Mithiel trod the forest floor carefully, rehearsing a silent dance with the trees as her sole companions, she seemed to see his faintly smiling face etched into every curve of the bark, the mischievous blue eyes peeking through the canopy of leaves, his voice a river of warmth as the wind whispered in her ears. 

Who was he? Of his identity, the elf had learnt nothing, yet she had not given out her name either. It was as if they had returned to the very blood of life, disembodied from the titles that encased them, and met in the middle of a perilous marshland with none of that old armour to protect them, yet nothing to hide. There were none of the restrictions placed on parties or gatherings, only them in the swirling labyrinth of the forest.

And that terrified Mithiel.

In all honesty, she had doubted whether to meet him. The abnormal flux of energy that encased the thought of him could surely only be temporary, only a fleeting sensation infused by the trance of summer air. Her body had tingled with wariness and content until her blood felt like a contradicting concoction, bubbling fervently yet gushing warmth. He seemed, truly, to have been infatuated with her, up to the point that his graceful and noiseless strides had followed her into the endless expanse of the field, and his eyes, a hue of liquid purple in the setting light, had keenly narrowed over the endless stems that sprouted from the springy soil. And it had been him who found the bird, and hoisted the small body upwards with graceful delicacy. The sleek feathers had shone like polished daggers in the high moonlight, and Mithiel had immediately lurched forwards, pacing swiftly towards where the elf held him aloft and gently taking the falcon into her own arms. Truthfully, she was now ashamed of the almost poisonous glare she had shot at him, especially due to the fact that he had helped her in her mission with such good will.   
It was not strange that she should be wary, and she certainly was, yet something inexplicable brewed underneath her fears as her gaze surveyed his features, chiseled sharply in the harsh moonbeams, and she felt an inexplicable peace within, as if the glassy calmness of a lake had descended upon an ever running river.

 

"Your loveliness blinds and paralyzes me my lady, and I would seek to follow you into the very dwelling of Morgoth if you so wished, but to accompany you home is something I do not yet have a right to ask.”   
His voice came, deep, as if emerged directly from the roots of an ancient tree. Her tongue rebelled to answer this statement, and yet he continued before she could snap a single word.  
“Therefore I will take my leave of you now, but know that my heart lingers with you, and when we are apart and you can not see me... I remain with you, always." 

His last word hung in the air, suspended like a swirling shred of mist, and Mithiel felt her heart give an aching throb that rippled through her whole body, a throb of hurt, of pain, of happiness, of…  
The wind had brought a heavy hand down on her cheek, and with it her composure returned like a shield long lost in battle. Her lips nipped into action, extending a small half smile over her countenance as she simultaneously gave a small nod of her head.

“I do believe your statements contradict themselves, voronwer*, and could therefore said to be void of meaning, yet I see you speak the truth in saying that you have no right to accompany me.”

With that, the corner of her lips gave a small twitch, and she turned with a flurry of her grey cloak, making certain to shield the bird’s body against the wind. A few paces she took, before the tranquil warmth in which she had been basked was shattered by whips of cold air, and turning suddenly she gazed upon the stranger once more.

“I thank you for your aid. If it were not for your keen eyes, Ravon would not have been found with such haste.” she smiled, and quickly ducked her head in order to mask the sudden awe she felt at seeing him now, from a distance, poised as regally as a king amidst a sea of silver, and observing her with eyes brighter than summer’s sky. Truly, it was a strange thing, what had happened between them, so abrupt and unknown that the elf felt a pang of uneasiness course through her body, mingled with an unbridled happiness, like that of an elven child scaling the boughs of a tree with no care to the thought of falling. 

“I trust we shall meet again. Till then… vanya sulie**, mellon***”

 

Mithiel felt a small smile alight upon her lips at the memory. The way the elf, seemingly not bearing to let her out of his sight, had strode after her and declared that near every day he ran through the forest, and that if she ever desired to converse with him , she must only stand to the side of the path and await his arrival. Yet it almost seemed as if he had , indeed, followed her through the shadowy ways home, if only in spirit or vigour, his running footsteps an echo to hers in the same way the wind laughs in the stead of a bird’s wings. And as the days passed by, this presence had seemed to fade, each time further away and replaced only by the memories held by her own mind, and by the intrigue that she held towards him. The elven maid had wrought her decision at last; she must know the true intentions of the wild elf, she must trace the lines of his features once more, if only to search for hidden creases that would reveal the presence of lies, or the lack of them.

Sincerely, she feared what would happen. Oft she had been given hope where truly there was only greed, or want for power, and deep in her heart Mithiel knew that in all likelihood, this was all that the enigmatic appearance had been pursuing. Yes, he had confessed what seemed like undying love for her, had professed his disposition to follow her even into the darkest pits of Middle-Earth, and he was lying. Surely, he must be. There was no true honesty, not one such as this, and she would not be foolish enough to fall with open arms into a trap of certain pain. Too many elven maids had been known to be heart-shattered, and consumed by grief like a slowly rotting tree, until there was naught left but withered wisps of bark that were felled by the first prod of winter wind.

And still, the elf danced the dance of the forest, her course eddying and curling around the trunks of mighty trees and bearded outcrops of rock that breathed life into the misty air, but who were now hushed, their invisible lips pursed as they held their breath for this meeting that, unbeknownst to Mithiel, would shape her fate, and that of Middle-Earth.  
\-----------  
*Loyal one  
**Fair winds  
***Friend


	20. Chapter 20

The layered stone that encased the palace and fortress seemed to have done nothing to hinder the coming of frost, which rippled through the air in a herd of slithering coils, extending its sharpened claws into Legolas’ being, scratching at his chest, grazing the skin of his neck and sending trickles of heartless cold through his entire body. The halls, lit duskily by shielded lights, seemed abruptly empty, an echo of airlessness which engulfed his own body and threatened to swallow him, to drag him down and drench him with ice until nothing was left but a crisp cavity held in the shell of an equally chill body. A mirror, a surface polished to the greatest sheen, which would serve the sole purpose of beaming its reflection at the Elvenking and exhibiting, to his eyes only, what he had truly become.

Yet the prince could not find it in himself to succumb to this pull, and his heart resisted with infallible strength, firm in its position. Hundreds of years had been spent by the elf in wonder and regret, and so he had received blow after blow, some stronger, others only small and serving the purpose of strengthening his defenses against those that would truly wound him. As a child, his heart had been soft, tender, moldeable, vulnerable to anything that might of hurt it. Thus, he had learnt that to avoid nostalgic heartache, he must also avoid proximity with his father, and in order to do so he must harden his heart towards him. It had never been easy, and to his own suffering the elf had rebelled against this knowledge, ferally throwing himself against the barriers of stone set by the King, shooting at them, scaling them, whatever he could do to breach that proximity and reach out, for his ada’s frozen mask to melt into a smile, for the regal arms to break their poise and fly apart like the wings of a bird before descending around him, enveloping his tiny body with warmth and care, if only once, to show that he…

Legolas clamped an imaginary blow down on the thought, blinking as the cold once more threatened to engulf his being. This had never come to pass, and as time had flown by, the young elf had learnt to bow his head at the wintry words without gazing up in hope of seeing some sort of affection, he had become accustomed to hardening his heart to the emptiness, even sometimes bitterness, that soured his father’s face each time their eyes met. Even now, the Elvenking could not bring himself to look at his son, and his words carried like dead leaves over empty air of the halls, rumbling, meaningless, void of life, and mingled with the sound of his robes as they billowed and then fell, whispering against the floor with unrestrained mockery.

For these reasons, his soul had forged an expression, a coating of ice that spread itself over his features, for the very purpose of hiding unseemly emotions, and was rarely broken save for when his face could stand it no longer, an contorted in a sudden spasm of emotion, causing the mask to shatter. This was not the case with his father’s actions, as the elf had lived amongst them for centuries, and had learnt to fend them off with nothing but the simple action of looking away, and trying to forget.

And the young prince had never spoken of this to anyone, in fear that his then shaky defences would fall to the ground and lay his emotions bare and raw to the mercy of the scavengers… to no one, save for Tauriel, the one whose lips now uttered his name, light and yet more charged with relief than any fruit or wine. A flow of warmth seemed to accompany its soothing warble, thawing the frigidity of his thoughts with barely a touch, and Legolas felt their gazes meet as she uttered her next words, a growing heat threatening to bubble up from his chest. He should rebuke her for her boldness, the smooth steeliness of her voice, and yet the elf could not find it in his heart to do so. 

“You are welcome to stand by my side, Tauriel, yet it is not my place to offer you leave for this quest.”  
Legolas drew an inaudible breath, watching her face silently in fear of what it might tell him. He could not bring himself to loose the only love that would ever stand by his side, however small, however partial.   
“However, if you wish I shall inquire to the King on your behalf. Gather your...” he bit off the end of the sentence, a rise of guilt clogging his throat upon realizing that she had barely any possessions, even the tunic she now wore had been newly given to her. "You may gather what you need for the journey, take any weapons you must. I expect the King is in haste to leave, so we shall be leaving soon"  
The elf gave a slight nod, unsmiling, and turned to face the path his father had trod, barely hesitating before commencing to stride noiselessly after the Elvenking, not looking back to confirm the expression on Tauriel's face. He did not deserve her companionship, or her trust, or… her love. 

He had left his closest friend in the only moment she had ever needed him to hold her, he had forsaken her merely for the sake of sudden bitterness and his own need, that need to expand the distance between them so that he would not hurt her with the contempt he felt, and thus drive her away. Tauriel was the person he held most near to his heart, and even then he had managed to hurt her, in the same way he seemed to inflict pain upon his father. When he had seen her lying on the edge of the cliff in Raven Hill, her body broken, and the brute Bolg approaching it with bloodthirsty anger, he had immediately sprung into action. All he could think of was keeping the orc away from her, no matter the cost, and yet he had failed to realize… not until it was too late, that she had wanted her life to be lost, that the fact that he had saved her had struck her heart as harshly as an axe, more painfully than death itself. And Legolas could not help but feel ashamed, ashamed at the fact that he had neglected to see what was in front of him,and done what was right by his own standards, that he had saved himself the pain of losing the only person he could ever love, yet in the act of doing so inflicted that same hurt upon her heart, and condemned her to live the rest of eternity with it.

Tauriel had always been the sole person he trusted with all his being, so much that he had felt from the moment they had met that he could lay his heart in front of her, and that she would not prod and squeeze it, but place a gentle blanket of warmth over it, and soothe its bruises. The elf children had run the forest closer than brother and sister, and the prince had led her up the knotted barks of his favourite trees, up to the topmost branches, where they would sit together and gaze at the stars, and sometimes speak… tentatively, at first, and later in greater depth. She had told him of her troubles, and he had listened, and he had told her of his,even to the point where he mentioned things that would never again come out of his lips, and she listened, never taking advantage of his weakness or mocking the falsity of his habitual composure. Tauriel had come to know when to fall silent if her friend was considering to say something, to lay down if only a portion of his emotions in front of her, and Legolas had learnt to find himself in her eyes, to gather the courage to momentarily break his barriers and speak to her of something wounding. Her voice had ever been a soothing song to his heart, and Legolas had hoped… now, he wished, that she felt the same way. Surely, his responses to her afflictions had been cold and not in the least comforting, and his words, his actions, had never done anything but seem cold to her, and now… wound her, in the same way the sight of him oft seemed to pain his father.

The elven prince knew not what he had done to inspire such emotions in the King, yet not once in his eternal memory had he failed to glimpse that subtle hurt in his father’s eyes, however small or covered by a spark of warmth. Always, it was there, the lurking shadow of a crime the elf did not remember committing, but which he believed he could guess the identity of. His mother…  
And as if on cue, the path underneath his feet swerved, the etched wood tracing a sharp corner around an outcrop of frozen stone.

First, Legolas heard the voices, one completely unknown, the other as familiar as the engravings of his bow. Deep and low it carried, imbued with what sounded like a tint of… affection? It felt so wrong, so strange to hear that known voice rumble in lukewarmth, when all his ears had ever taken in were faultless, measured daggers of frost. 

And yet none of this prepared the elven prince for the image his eyes met, and as if a horde of orcs were charging towards him, the elf gave a sudden leap backwards, eyes flying wide in sudden shock. And the serpent of cold lashed out of hiding, hissing, its icy scales snapping with the sound of a whip, and its claw flew towards him, and tore open his chest, and left upon his heart a laceration so deep that Legolas felt his lips part and sharply hiss in a breath of frozen air.

There he stood, the Elvenking, his father, the creature who had been ever distant, the very embodiment of elegance, haughtiness, indifference, the very person who had turned away from his own son just moments before without deigning to lay sight on him, the very elf who, no matter how much an elven child long ago had dedicated his entire soul into following his footsteps, into becoming worthy of the title that was bestowed upon him, had not once deemed it fit to compliment his progress with a mote of warmth or veracity. 

And now, there he stood, his expression as icy as ever, but eyes and voice thawed into snow, the marble hand, ever clenched or still, now resting… upon the shoulder of a young elf, a soldier, still only a child… so painful was that touch, as if the palm of the King’s hand were dotted with needles of the most honed metal… and then the long fingers shifted, and tensed, and squeezed, and with that simple gesture Legolas felt his heart clench as if the action were being performed upon it and not the young soldier’s shoulder. His gaze fell to the etched ground, able to withstand the sight no longer, and in an effort to at least hide the pain his head jerked sideways, away from his father and towards the depths of the halls. Once his gaze rested there, he finally let his eyelids fall shut, and for a moment cradled himself in the eternal darkness, nursing the newly opened wounds he had believed were fully sealed by time and space.

A simple touch, that was all it was, and yet for Legolas it would have… he could not imagine, not fathom, why a sudden warmth had thawed his father’s heart, if only momentarily, and impulsed him to act so. Even when the warrior had returned to Eryn Lasgalen, even after decades of knowing near to nothing of his son’s movements, the Elvenking had greeted him with naught but words imbued with gurgling pain, and the elf had thought that ordinary. Yet this… what, even, could the young soldier have said that would cause Thranduil to perform an action he had not even thought of at his own son’s return? In all the centuries, the most he had received was a kind remark, and still then he had doubted whether his father’s words truly echoed in veracity of what he felt.

Yet he could not linger here forever, his face facing the opposite direction, with his eyes closed, and lose himself in the pitch blackness of his own closed eyes. It was not in Legolas’ nature, to think and brood, but rather to act, and so with rapid precision he steeled his gaze, wiped the bewilderment clean from his features, and turned back to where the Elvenking stood, now alone, whispering words that only he himself could hear.

“Heru en amin*” the elf uttered crisply, inclining his head slightly to the right before his gaze once more swept to his father’s visage, his speech as blunt as ever. “I desire to ask for your consent that the former Captain of the Guard should accompany you also, and therefore put her great skill to good use. I have no doubt that we would miss her hand sorely if great perils were to arise on the way.”

\--------------  
*My Lord


	21. Chapter 21

The Elvenking was ever plagued with memories of his beloved Mithiel. On an eternal loop the remembrances would incessantly play in the background of his mind, the happiness and bliss of times long past acting as a reminder of his failures. Thranduil needed it, clung to it, tied himself to the agony of losing her in order to remind himself that he deserved nothing. He was king of Eryn Lasgalen and that was all he was. Yet as the soft retreating echoes of the young elf's feet hummed softly in Thranduil's ears, he was suddenly struck with a crippling realization. He was not only a king, he was also a father... and even if he had attempted to forgo that right many years ago, it didn't change the fact that he had a living breathing son whom he had taken out of the equation.

A conflicting myriad of emotion swirled within the Elvenking's soul. In that moment he knew that for the sake of his son he would have given away his entire kingdom for the mere chance of redemption in their relationship, a bold statement but a true one nonetheless. Always he had kept Legolas at arms reach, seeing in his son a reflection of Mithiel that selfishly pained him too much to contemplate properly, leading to his ever cool demeanor towards the golden haired prince. Despite this Thranduil's love for Legolas was undeniable, he knew to the very depths of his soul that he would gladly die in the place of his son, but he had never explicitly uttered those words to the only other creature in Middle-Earth that he truly loved so deeply.

Rivulets of white hot pain shot through him like lightning as other memories interposed themselves over the ever constant presence of Mithiel. He saw the adoring face of young Legolas, staring obliviously up at the devastated face of his Ada, as Thranduil returned alone from the war in Angmar. He saw Legolas hiding up in the branches of a tree, tears glistening on his young cheeks, as the elf-child tried to process the knowledge that his mother would never return. Most of all Thranduil saw the way his son had always looked at him so hopefully, with such unyielding love shining in his eyes, always waiting for his father to show him the same love he once had done. But Thranduil never did.

A tremor took root and claimed the entirety of the Elvenking’s body. He had wallowed in self-pity and his own grief for so long that when Legolas needed him he had turned his back and kept it turned. Where had the simplest of tender gestures been? When had he last squeezed his son’s shoulder in reaffirmation, as he had just done with the young soldier? The answer was as clear as it was devastating; not since Mithiel had left them. Them, not just Thranduil, and for once he saw that Legolas too had lost just as greatly as he himself had. Worse, with callous disregard Thranduil had effectively killed the part of himself that was father to the young prince, leaving Legolas essentially an orphan.

In the simple gesture of touching the young elf-guard’s shoulder a single petal of understanding had unfurled from the broken bloom that was his battered heart. For an instant the constant wail in his soul that screamed for Mithiel was silenced, overwhelmed by the love for his son he usually tried to bury, and tempered with the understanding that he had withheld his affection from Legolas for reasons as selfish as they were pitiful. What had he done? What right did he have to do that to his son? Legolas was not just an echo of Mithiel, no matter how much his bitter heart had insisted that he was, he was the prince of Eryn Lasgalen, and most importantly…he was Thranduil’s beloved son.

In this instant of revelation the Elvenking hadn’t even noted the approach of other elves, and it was only when a familiar voice vibrated in his ear that his eyes refocused and he looked up. There, standing before his eyes, was the very elf whom his thoughts had been dwelling on. Legolas stood there, cool, stiff, distant, requesting permission for Tauriel to accompany them that went unheard by Thranduil. Instead the Elvenking searched his son’s face desperately, and in a moment of crippling grief at the understanding of his actions he nearly fell apart and wept. Instead a sad smile, rare even in this form, spread across his countenance as he looked down at Legolas. 

“Legolas… my little leaf…” The words were uttered musically to the golden haired prince, but spoken in a broken whisper, a note of wistful sadness colouring his tone as he spoke. The endearment itself trickled through his lips with keening pain, calling forth the image of Mithiel first holding their son and calling him her 'little leaf,' a term of deep love that only she had ever used with their son... until this moment when the Elvenking allowed his heart to open, however briefly. Thranduil felt keenly the loss of all the years the two of them had squandered, years that Thranduil himself had crushed underfoot in favour of suffering for transgressions that had no business of affecting their son. Yet somehow he had still managed to justify his actions, and had Tauriel not arrived and become the source of affection Legolas needed… the Elvenking feared to think what loveless sort of dark creature might stand before him now.

“Your mother would be so proud.” This was voiced with a deeper sadness, a melancholy that came directly from his heart, and for the briefest of moments in that admission Thranduil felt a prickle of peacefulness that he had not encountered since before Mithiel had left him. “I am proud of you Legolas, I-“ the words he wanted to say, the love that he wished to finally express, rebelled on his tongue and refused to fly free into the air between them. 

Though he could not say the words the Elvenking wondered if for once he might be able to do something right, to repair a fraction of the damage he himself had wrought. There was no telling how Legolas would react to it, and if his son pulled away he would accept it, but in a brief moment of determination Thranduil knew he couldn’t turn his back again, not this time, not to his son.

Lifting his arms the Elvenking gently rested his hands on the shoulders of Legolas, sparks of emotion and pain rippling through him at the contact, and gave a tender squeeze. “I have missed you ionneg.”* Thranduil rumbled softly, unsure of how Legolas would respond to this admission. “And I am honoured to have you accompany me to Angmar.” His voice quivered on the last word, a tremor of déjà vu sliding through him before he banished it quickly, and the Elvenking’s eyes shifted past Legolas to study the red-haired guard whom had somehow stolen the heart of Eryn Lasgalen’s prince. It was eerily similar in some respects to Thranduil’s own past, and with the painful realizations that he owed Tauriel his thanks and couldn’t do to his son what his own father had done to him, Thranduil sighed and nodded to her.

“Tauriel may come as well, if you so wish it.” He hadn’t been listening to the request his son had made, but he could guess what it had been and knew this gesture would please Legolas. To repair their relationship was likely impossible, even given an eternity to attempt it, but at least Thranduil could now say that he hadn’t abandoned his son entirely. A rare smile, a true one though tinged with sadness, spread across the king’s face briefly before he slowly released Legolas, knowing that as the distance between them increased the peace he currently felt would vanish once more. 

As the Elvenking reluctantly pulled away from his son, comprehending that Legolas would likely not appreciate affection from the father who had neglected him for so long, the gaping hole in his heart that Mithiel had left reinstated itself, and the Elvenking again retreated into the cesspool of memories.

***

Light feet flew unencumbered across the leaf-littered ground, and though the cooling earth was festooned with a myriad of dry curled leaves the light elven feet made nary a sound. The heart of the wild elf was beating in tandem with his footfalls, though as always he battled with the soul-deep hope that the fair elven maid would be waiting for him today.

For months he had flown through the forest each and every day, following the same worn path with devotion and dedication, the echo of his declaration to her that she could find him on this same path wearing on his mind. Always his eyes would play tricks on him, a flitting shadow or a bird taking flight causing his heart to beat frantically for a moment as he mistook it for the lovely elf-maid. Yet now, as the seasons turned, he wondered if she had pragmatically rejected him in her heart and that was the cause of her absence. 

Oft the prince would retrace the steps she had taken on that first meeting when she returned home, having followed her that day despite his flowering words against such actions, and would clamber into branches of a tree overlooking her home and watch for her. A few times he had seen her, and each had lifted his very soul into joy and gladness, a song dripping on his lips that would have been far sweeter than even the birdsong that soothed him. Ultimately however he had been forced to put a stop to that behaviour, noting how the elves of that household began to look uncomfortably into the forest, clearly sensing some presence there, and in fear of discovery he had kept away.

Thranduil knew that he would run this path eternally, even if she never showed herself to him again, and that he would always hold onto the fierce hope that he might encounter her one day. A slow smile rippled across his countenance at the thought of her, he could still see the nameless elf-maid in his minds eye, fearless and fierce, like a wild tigress who knew precisely the extent of her power and was confident in her claws. Her tongue had certainly been sharp enough to whittle a lesser elf into nothing, but Thranduil was not a lesser elf. He was as driven as he was confident, a vibrant free-spirited elf who had learned the meaning of love the instant he saw her… and that was something he would not let go of easily.

The prince of the Greenwood dryly surmised that he would eventually confront her at her home if she didn’t reappear. Perhaps his love was one sided, and if that were the case he could respect it, but if she tarried away from him out of fear or reluctance to believe him… well, that was something Thranduil could not accept and would rectify if he could.

Lost in his thoughts and the planning of great speeches he could give to her in order to win her heart, the elven prince nearly missed seeing the figure who appeared ethereally out of the forest. She was running towards him, her every step graceful and beautiful, each foot placed with elegance and care, dancing along the path as she approached him. 

Delight made Thranduil light up brightly, and he laughed a full laugh of pure unadulterated joy before coming to a halt before her, the entirety of his being seeming to glow with sudden starlight to reflect the music of his heart. Seeing her again caused his very soul to sing, and he wished in that moment (more than he had ever wished for anything before in his life), that he could sweep her away and see the wonders of Middle-Earth by her side. Consequences be damned, he would handle his father’s displeasure with joy if it meant she would walk beside him, and he would let nothing stand in their way if she were willing.

“Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn**, hiril vuin.”*** Thranduil’s voice poured forth in the softest and warmest of melodies, the cadence of it infused with a reflection of his singing soul, the words themselves enveloped and steeped in the illogical love he felt for her. Perhaps it was destiny, perhaps not, but one way or another the prince knew that she was his soul-mate, and every part of his being cried out to remain near to her always.

Truthfully, as the comprehension that she was truly there sunk in, Thranduil found himself tongue tied, the sweet words and sonnets he had composed for her locked behind his unwilling tongue. Instead he stared at her in reverence and joy, the words he did at last voice being said with a tone of wonder and deep happiness that could not be described.

“You came, and my very soul sings to see you.”  
______  
* my son  
** a star shines on the hour of our meeting  
*** my lady


	22. Chapter 22

There had been a time, many years ago, when Tauriel had slipped alone into the moonlit forest, clambered to the very top of a tree, and stared up at the stars. She had stared at those twinkling celestial bodies for what felt like an age, unsure what exactly had prompted her to plead her case, for the young elf-maid had come out under the sky with a purpose.

Closing her eyes and smiling very softly, Tauriel had whispered a request to the still air that had seemed so sweet and innocent at the time.

“Please…oh great ilúvatar, I ask…. I ask for one thing only,” and then with a girlish giggle her reverence had passed and she had looked up at the stars with them mirrored in her eyes, “I want a love that will span an eternity! Like the one my Ada and Nana had.” Tauriel’s eyes had grown distant and sad briefly, the sweet memories of her parents disrupted with the final image she had of them; desperate and afraid, cut down after stalling the attack just long enough for her to be whisked to safety. But more than that she tried very hard to remember the love that had always burned between them, the tender looks and soft words she had never been able to catch. It was that part of her legacy that she longed for, and it was something that she had decided to petition her creator for.

For a time the elf-child had sat in the treetop, buoyed by the gentle wind and sang to by the orchestra of night creatures, yet eventually she had remembered that she had someone who would be anxious if she was discovered missing, and Tauriel had quickly clambered back down and returned to the Halls. 

As it would always be, her mind could never stray too far before being drawn back by the remembrance of a single shining light in her life: Legolas. He had been so lonely when she had first met him, yet their friendship had grown both quickly and with great strength. To him she had told deep truths about herself, secrets that she could often barely acknowledge to herself let alone others. He had not, perhaps, held her heart in the way he had hoped… but to him she had given it in an entirely different way.

Tauriel’s faith in Legolas, her unwavering trust and respect for him, had never waned. Even when he had left her to her grief and exile she had never been able to truly banish him from her heart. What had been given with implicit faith could not easily be taken back, and there had always lingered a vain hope in her heart that he would return one day. Not, perhaps, with the same deep friendship that had once been extended to her, but at least in remembrance of the past they had shared.

No such relief had come. Instead Tauriel had suffered through each day utterly alone, the childhood friend whom she had rescued from loneliness evidently uninterested in doing the same for her. It had hurt yes, wounded her almost as deeply as Kili’s death, but the elf had never been able to blame him for it. After all, Tauriel had hurt him herself, rejected his outstretched hand in favour of holding the cold dead fingers of the dwarf who had stolen her heart.

So much had changed since they had been children, so many things had happened that she had never been able to anticipate. After Kili’s death, while she had wandered with the dwarves, whispers of a new evil rising in the north had begun. And when at last she had heard that Gimli, son of Gloin whom she had briefly met, was part of a company that sought to destroy the ring of power that kept Sauron’s spirit alive… she had been startled to learn that the prince of Mirkwood accompanied this small group. 

Since Tauriel had learned of the quest which Legolas took part in her thoughts had lingered on him often. Memory of him had been woken in her again though, she had, for several decades, taught herself to keep him out of her mind. Always would she send up a silent plea to ilúvatar to keep him safe, for to lose Legolas, even though he certainly must feel nothing for her any longer, would not be something she could bear.

So strange, how that small elf-child’s plea to her creator for an eternal could leave such bitter proof. For it seemed that Tauriel had been doomed to love not one, but two people, in vain throughout her life. The one had been snatched from her before he could even know that she too did love him, and would have loved him for all his life and her eternity, as well as an elf-prince to whom she had shared her heart until he owned a part of it. Now it seemed that love was a bitter thing that brought only pain. Had Thranduil not also loved so deeply? Tauriel had seen it in his eyes when he had told her that her love was real, he too had loved beyond reason…and lost that love. Even now she could see how the loss had whittled down the Elvenking, each year rendering him more and more broken, and the elf-maid feared that she too was beginning to feel that wearing on her soul.

Even if Legolas could come to feel for her the way he once had, Tauriel did not know what she had left to give him. More than that, she feared that all the things she loved were doomed to suffer. Had her parents not been slain before her eyes? Killed defending her? Had Kili not died to save her too? She feared that Legolas would fall to this same fate if she allowed him to claim what was left of her heart, and a fate of that caliber was not something she could accept. Still, Tauriel comforted herself in the knowledge that there was certainly no chance that the elf prince could ever love her. She had rejected him, chosen a dwarf instead of him, and ultimately he deserved far better than a broken elf-maid.

She was jolted from her thoughts by the deep musical voice that rippled over her ears. The rebuke she had expected did not come, and instead his voice was soft and as gentle as she remembered it to be. Lifting her emerald eyes the former captain of the guard, studied his countenance cautiously before proceeding. Instinct told her that both of them were in danger in this moment, of what she did not know, but for once she did her best to ignore it.

“And I would be honoured to stand beside you.” She murmured with a faint smile, sadness and wistfulness lingering in the undertones of her voice though she sought to dispel it. “I know your father must give leave, but I would-“ she hesitated, knowing that the words she was about to utter would not sit well with most loyal subjects, “I would care not for his approval if I did not have yours first.” Tauriel whispered, almost ashamed to be saying such things. Though she respected Thranduil, despite his harsh treatment of her, she ultimately cared less for his good opinion than she did that of his son, and that seemed oddly telling and made her feel uncomfortably vulnerable.

Still, the obvious ensuing awkwardness with which he corrected himself in regards to her possessions, as well as his willingness to intercede on her behalf, relaxed the feeling of vulnerability in her and she shot Legolas a rueful smile that was more reminiscent of times long past.

“I do not require great treasure-hoards of possessions to live well hîr vuin.”* Tauriel voiced dryly, uncertain of how her subtle teasing would be received but reaching for it all the same. “I have learned to keep what is precious to me near to my heart and care for little else.” It was true in so many respects and applied to so many things, a fact that caused her heart to pang painfully.

The instructions Legolas gave her were familiar territory, though they did reinforce the distance between them once again, and the elf-maid bowed her head and nodded. “As you command, so shall I do.” Tauriel murmured, saluting him lightly and in far more familiar a manner than she ought to have, before turning away to do as he had bid. Realization of her mistake caught her though, and briefly she turned to look back at him over her shoulder.

“I apologize for neglecting proper elvish formalities, I have been alone and apart from our kind for too long I fear.” She called a little ruefully, knowing that he would forgive her for the mistake even if he shouldn’t. “I shall meet you by the gate shortly.”

That statement reminded Tauriel of the many times they had snuck out together when they weren’t permitted to. Planning covert meetings that would take place by the gate prior to escaping, often accomplished with far more ease than the Elvenking would have found acceptable. A sigh passed her lips and Tauriel forced the nostalgia down where it belonged. It would do no good to reminisce, nothing would be gained from it save for grief and useless wistfulness.

The long years that had separated them had forced Tauriel to analyze her heart, and whether she liked it or not, whether the thought made her rebel against it or not, the fact remained that if Legolas did still love her… there was a part of herself that had come to feel for him in that same way. Through all the pain and distance between them she could not deny the sliver of love that threatened to grow with the slightest encouragement. Legolas had long held a part of her heart regardless, and when Kili had unlocked the depth of romantic love that lived in her… it seemed that the decades afterwards had taught the part of herself that belonged to the prince to love him in that way too.

Shaking her head to dispel the very notion, Tauriel cleared her throat and straightened her back. It was impossible. She neither deserved nor had any right to his love. Legolas was not only the prince of Eryn Lasgalen, he was one of the saviours of Middle-Earth, and to believe she had some claim on him was as naïve as it was arrogant. As it had always been Tauriel would be a friend to him, to whatever level Legolas desired, and when he found a pretty elf-maid to love she would be joyful for him and hide her own pain. So it was, so it had to be.  
__________  
* my lord


	23. Chapter 23

The trees rustled their leaves in applause as her boot-clad feet stepped upon the path, and with them came the strangest of sensations, a sudden flood of electrifying energy, as if the purest whiteness of a lightning bolt had descended into her blood and was bringing every inch of her alive, tiny rivulets of pure vibrance causing every atom to throb with vigour and strength and excitement and a strange feeling of absolute belonging which she would never be able to describe with words. Suddenly, she felt as alive as she did when she swung from branch to branch, the wind whipping her cheeks… but in a different manner, as if all the moments that brought her joy were winding rivers, some only trickling streams and others gushing waterfalls, some coursing through others or joining together in one single rush… but all of them, every single one, flowing towards the sea that stood in the centre of them, a sea so wild yet so deep that all Mithiel wanted to do was plunge into its velvety waters, ride the giant waves that rose higher than the tallest clifftops. It was a sea of endless colour, a transparent mirror, a purple sky, a tapestry of rainbow stars, and it raged and whispered upon the shores of her life, spume-crested waves rasping at the pebbles of her fears, gradually dragging them to the depths or grinding them to sand.

And the more she gazed at the elf in front of her, the more her whole essence seemed to become submerged into this sea of pure life, and she felt the gushing forces of everything she loved collide into the one bubble that was her sea, and with it her heart swelled with joy and pure energy. His fine lips, that in their paleness could be mistaken for frosty, were spread in a smile as warm as an eagle’s wings silhouetted in sunset, and his sapphire eyes were a myriad of stars… an entwined labyrinth that went deeply, deeply inside of him, and all of a sudden Mithiel found herself wanting to know that maze, to tread every word and laugh and tear in the same way that he ran these woodland paths. 

Mithiel carefully strode forwards, and though armed with hunting weaponry, the elf felt no need for defence. Somehow, she knew, she knew that he would not harm her despite this sudden infatuation. There was a certain sweetness, a tenderness about him that showed in the way his lithe body shook with pure, crystalline laughter, and his eyes brimmed with deep, soft pillows of caring joy, yet all of this was also armoured with chill steel, and the elven maid found herself realizing suddenly that he was no fool, as she had supposed him to be. No, those eyes were wise, albeit rash, and with the ability of coldness, without losing their flame. 

 

“Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn, hiril vuin. You came, and my very soul sings to see you.”

His voice rippled melodiously, like a silken swirl of wind imbued with the cavernous depth of a tree’s roots, and as the sound wafted like a softly intoned melody to her ears, Mithiel found herself stepping closer, despite the brewing dread that growled in the pit of her stomach. Her parents had been ever lenient with their daughter’s untamable streak, tolerating and even encouraging her hunting habits and her insatiable fascination with all things airborne. Yet the elf knew that this was due to their confidence in her judgement, that they knew she would never take a rash action or put herself or her family in danger… and this was not that, no, she was sure of it…

But she was sure of nothing. All new things in her life had produced a little apprehension, yet knowledge had forever been within arm’s reach. Answers would sprout from every corner the moment a question left her lips, and Mithiel had basked in this safety with great gratitude, constantly learning and relearning, experimenting and failing, commanding ignorance with a merciless hand.

However, now… now that they stood before each other, and she was expected to speak, to express this… feeling, this state of being, she found herself utterly lost for words, for a grip on the situation. It felt as if her feet were leaving the ground, and floating in a peaceful bliss, yet floating nonetheless,unable to gain steady footage and only able to glide like a leaf does over water, at the mercy of the currents. 

And this caused fear to seep into her bones, a dash of apprehension running through her. This feeling was completely alien and yet so familiar, as if she had been destined for it her whole life yet never heard or read of it. It was, perhaps, because she knew… this time there was no space for experimentation, no doubts, no hidden corners… it was just this , a feeling of sudden completion, and inside that fullness there were an eternity of discoveries to be made.

“Vedui'* Manke naa lle autien**?” A small smile slid across her lips as she closed the space between them, coming to a halt but several feet away from him. Only now did she realize the height at which he towered, tall as a young tree, and the chiseled lines of his visage, vestiges of a map which she was determined to explore.

“Vanimle sila tiri***” her voice came softly, muffled by the soundless laughter that escaped her lips. Surely, if he had been allowed to approach her so boldly and compliment her appearance, then her doing the same thing would be no crime. 

Yet Mithiel observed how the elf stood entranced, seemingly unable to speak, his tongue locked in the nervous stance of silence, and felt a surge of affection run through her upon gazing upon his eyes. They were overflowing with hope and joy, like a sea with just too much water.

“You can speak, yes, I am not an illusion” reaching out, softly, her hand came in contact with his shoulder, an unknown rush of flame and ice cascading over her being. “I do not ask for your forgiveness that I did not come… Truthfully, I did not think I would do so. But, mysterious woodland sprite… I must confess your spell has enraptured me, and I must give my honest gratitude for your aid in finding my companion. His wing is fully healed now.” A hesitation, she did not quite know why, but suddenly her instinct warned her of something in the same way it alerted her of the presence of danger in the forest. Yet her lips found their courage, and as she turned her head, narrowing her eyes, she inquired: “ Who, if I may ask, are you?”   
\------------  
*Greetings  
**Where are you going?  
***Your beauty shines bright


	24. Chapter 24

The distance that separated them ached, as if in extending his soul he had touched a surface of shattered glass, transparent yet impenetrable, brittle yet so sturdy, the polished sheet shattered into a myriad of shards and afterwards rebuilt, yet now it did not offer a clear image of she who stood at the other side, but a distorted one, and if he but tried to reach out for her, his fingertips would graze the sharp edges of broken glass and drip with blood until the surface was no longer transparent, but a blinding crimson. 

And then, all that would be left would be the memory, and Legolas knew that he would recount every single moment, visualise every detail, hear every word over and over again until it drove him mad. They were imbued with such sweetness, such innocence and youthful energy, that the elf had considered many a time that perhaps he should dwell on the past, turn his back instead of facing the present and future, which could surely only lead to anguish and sorrow. Those moments were so precious, so fleeting, and yet in times when the storm cloud of evil had overhung him, they were what had saved Legolas from utter despair, the force that had kept him moving and his arrows flying… along with the will of life, her memory was what he fought most dearly for, for the chance to once more find her and ask for naught but her forgiveness...

And there had been an instance, a sliver of time, when Legolas truly believed the end of his eternity had come. He laid his life down alongside his companions, and as they made their last stand, the elf knew these children had become his brothers, and he would fight alongside them to his last breath. But as what remained of the fellowship had surged forwards, charged towards death for the fate of Middle-Earth, he had whispered a silent plea into the red sky, and as he did so the churning clouds whipped, and swayed in a thousand crimson strands, and all of a sudden he was gazing into her face one last time. Ilúvatar had granted him at least that, to gaze upon her visage imprinted in the skies, and feel that love that burned so strongly within him… no, he would never find her, and for that , even in death he would never forgive himself, but at least the honour had been bestowed upon him to lay sight upon she whom he had loved most deeply… and hope that she was safe and loved, wherever she may be.

Now he knew that she was, at least, alive, yet still the elf could glimpse the pain that swam in those eyes, the eyes that had always been deep wells of joy and wisdom, pools of shining starlight. Legolas remembered with crystalline clarity the first time his gaze had met them, how he had followed the shuffling survivors of the orc attack to the maze of chambers where his father had given them refuge, and watched silently as they wept their loss, yet his eyes were ever entranced by the fiery redhead, a child not much younger than him. She thrashed like a tigress, demanding to return to her Ada and Nana, screaming at the guards to ride to the other side of the forest and save their burning homes instead of retreating like a snail into its shell. Cowards, she called them, and for the first time in his life the young prince had found himself wafting in questions about the intentions of his father, pondering on the reason for the cold apathy which he had not noticed until now. Surely, his ada loved the people, and cared for them… yet why was this the answer? To hide instead of defend?  
All this had swirled in Legolas’ mind as he had run the echoing halls, paths he knew as well as the branches of his favourite tree, towards the great hall. He knew that now the meals must be being set for his father, and although the young elf was aware of the rashness of his actions, he had burst into the cavernous room at a full sprint, his small legs carrying him in a buoyed bounce.

The rim of the table seemed to tower above his head, the frigid stone emitting a halo of freezing coldness that caused him to shrink a little, eyes narrowing as he scanned the room. There was no sign of life, not even a footstep, but the little elf could not bring himself to find whoever was in charge of the food. No, there was a raging party taking place by the riverside, and all those who would usually be charged with the care of the refugees were surely lying drunkenly in the water. It would take too long, and they needed warmth and comfort... she needed it. With a sudden flash of determination, the elf child’s eyebrows furrowed, and the tiny soles of his feet left the ground in a sudden leap that brought him swinging on the rim of the stone table. Grasping for a foothold, the small elf swayed from one side to the other, until finally he was able to lift himself to the surface and stand on the candlelit tabletop, smiling proudly at his accomplishment. Before him was an exquisite spread, complete with fruit and wine and the finest bread, and after having piled in his arms all he could, he leapt once more to the floor, his short legs carrying him back along the path whence he came, and all that time the only thing little Legolas could think of was that of the warmth that would imbue the survivors’ faces at such a soon relief, and how he could pick the best of what he was carrying and give it to the small child… maybe she would even speak to him, and the sole thought of that brought a tiny grin to his face. 

Little did he know that years hence, they would be standing like this, facing each other in such proximity, yet so far… so distant. There had been a time for their friendship, for the bond that had held them together stronger than all else… yet it was no more, or so it seemed. His feelings for her had never wavered, even in the darkest of times had their friendship ceased in giving warmth to his heart, but the uneasiness lay in the fact that Legolas doubted himself, his ability for love … he certainly did care for her, but what kind of hollowness had possessed him when he decided to leave, for his own sake more than hers? What kind of demon inhabited his insides, which forsook all he loved in a moment of passion, and left it to suffer? Even his father, in his despair, had surely been aggrieved by the loss of his son, especially during the turbulent times that were to follow. Of course, now the elven prince knew that his flight had led to an honourable quest, as he had had a hand in the fate of Elessar and that of the Ring, yet the intention had not been so. No, he had wanted to escape, and he had rejected the need of others for nothing, no great journey, but for an escapade from the kingdom and it’s people to whom he belonged… 

Legolas was pulled from his musings by her voice, ever as soft as velvet and harsh as steel, yet changed as he remembered it. The fiery ingenuity which characterized many of her words was now lost, replaced by experience and a tinge of sorrow, yet still it was the same voice, and the elf’s heart sang to hear it. Even more so, when he grasped the sense of her words, and a flash of an indescribable feeling assaulted his mind, and with it, fear, a deep, writhing fear that coiled in his throat.

“Tauriel, I-” his gaze fell to the floor, and when it ascended again, he did not bother trying to hide the emotion that swelled in his eyes. “I do not deserve for you to look upon me so… my leave should mean nothing to you” Then, hardening his voice against the words that threatened to pour out “My father is the king, if you wish to accompany him, you must seek his permission, not mine. Defying him, as you know, will not end sweetly…” his voice trailed off, and the elf cursed himself as a flood of memories returned to his mind and, surely, to hers. “Tauriel, I do not wish to see you banished once more, but the king’s hand is fierce. If you truly wish to come to Angmar, you must assure yourself that you are doing it for the safety of Eryn Lasgalen, and that therefore you shall be obedient to the king’s every command”

He had stepped closer to her as he spoke, and could not bring himself to meet her eyes, so instead he gazed slightly to the left, beyond her and towards the distant glow of the dining hall, the same one from which he had emerged, struggling to contain the brimming armful of delicacies, one of which he had later placed into the palm of her small hand while looking intently at every curve of her face, trying to find in them the friend he had always wished for. And now… now he felt her smile, and speak, but he could not bear to set eyes on her shining presence, or reach out his hand and graze her fingertips in the same way he once had. And then the moment had passed, and as she moved away with a familiar salute, he felt a small hysteria of joy, joy that she was here, joy that it had been given to him to speak to her again… yet for her, that very thing must be pain. It must pain her at every footstep, to know that if it weren’t for him, she could be with her beloved and not in the cold of this world… 

Legolas merely inclined his head in response to her apology, a wraith of a smile touching his lips at the memories the last words she uttered evoked in him, before turning and striding after his father.

***  
A sculpture of the most pure white, elegance in its poise, arrogance in its countenance, had been carved to frosty perfection by time and suffering as a sculptor drives his pointed tool into stone, releasing fleck and chunk with every blow until achieving the precise perfection of every fold of cloth, every strand of hair. The driving force had been the weight of a kingdom, the hammer, time, the chisel, loss, and together they had hewn his father into the elf that now stood before him, tall, slender, regal, more of a king any other could be… yet hollow, so void of all but whatever darkness consumed him, whatever crack that had slowly been expanding with every blow, and now threatened to pierce the perfectly carved skin and bring the sculpture crumbling down. Yet one could not mend that jagged crack, fill it with strength, from the outside. No, it’s rupture must be waited in order to even see the cause, and by then it would be too late, the figure would be too broken, and it would be discarded for the favour of another rough contour of stone, and the sculptor would once more begin their task upon their new piece, sweeping the remnants of their previous work into the unknown chasms of what could only be supposed was death.

Yet Legolas knew that this time had not come yet, it could not have. The Elvenking was resilient, strong, he had traversed so many years of perils and sorrows… why waver now? What had been the driving force that had wedged the crack in his being open, until the barbed rupture had reached the very surface of his skin? Surely, he could not linger in memories now, when surely he had found his foot in their storm… or perhaps he had been under them like a drowning sailor, and his head had now burst free from their grasp, only to be met with a screech of flame… and, by all means, he should retreat once more into the calming soothe of the water, be basked by the distorted coldness and watch as the fire rippled above him, yet he would not hear the call for rescue, and thus he would miss the last voyage to safety… and at some instance, he must burst into the air once more in order to not drown, but he would be utterly alone, and all there would be around him would be flame and ruin, nothing left of all he had once loved…  
And then, only then, would he let the fire take him.

This was the fate that the elven prince feared for his father, yet he could do nothing to cease its impending dread… save for trying to hinder the arrival of that last rupture which would be his ruin. And, in order to do so, Thranduil must remain as he had for millennia; covered, calm, poised, never taking the risk of pain, not allowing his mind to dwell on it… his heart must remain of frozen stone, a core that would hold his composure, and for that it could not risk melting into caring, for the rivulets of love would seep through the cracks, and break that core, and soften the rock so that at the tiniest touch he would fall apart… and that would be the end.

But Legolas felt all these notions dissipate like autumn leaves as he observed him, once a tall figure of perfection, now almost falling. A tremor rippled through the Elvenking’s lithe body, so different from his usual tremble of maddened anger, and the elf understood suddenly that it was emotion rarely seen: sadness, pure, dipping sadness, which now rested engraved on his mouth. Not the usual smirk, or the rare warm tilt of his lips, but a sweet heartache that undulated and swelled, billowing, unfurling, surging through the space between them like a raging sea. The elven prince could feel his heart pulsating within him, now more vigorously than ever, and his eyes could not tear themselves away from the vision of his father, who now moved, slowly, silent, yet painfully, and the lips parted not in the usual exhalation of frost, but simply pure, painful sorrow, still tinged by the crispness of winter… and then his voice came, low, rumbling in power, yet fractured into a thousand swallowed shards, deep, sharp, mangled.

“Legolas… my little leaf...”

A shuffle, a released whisper of leather against stone. A swirl of steam coiled into the gelid air, golden strands caressed velvet bristles, a footstep was lost into the void. Pupils swallowed azure, fingertips tasted darkness, a chill dithered over marble skin.

And then came the hands, slowly, unstoppable, not clenched, not still, but extended, and they fell to his shoulders, and with the contact came a burst, a heaving explosion that swelled,flashed and fled, and with it his eyes fell to the ground below him, his lips parted in a soft breeze, then sealed.

The words came, and flooded his mind, an Legolas let them do so, he let them stream into every nook and cranny, let them rise like the evening tide and, if only for one moment, consume him. Words he had, as a child, craved, and upon not being received had silently left a miniscule hollow, a bubble that was now engulfed and filled, and then was no more.

“Ada…”

But there was no place for words now, not even thought … nothing, nothing but that replete void, still ringing with the metallic clash of bittersweetness. He did not wish to understand, did not wish to think… Legolas knew he must cherish this, that he must feel it, deep in the core of his heart, and thus he let it drain there, and it swam in every pore for one last second before flowing to the centre of his soul, and there settled in a serene pool.

And as it did so, filling him with a sudden light, the prince knew what he must do. It came in a spark of clarity, lighting his entire body in utter conviction, and then faded like the setting sun, leaving him once more standing there, face to face with his falling father, nothing save his pain stirring in the cavernous halls. 

All he knew now, with utter exactness, were the words he must say. Legolas’ gaze fell and glided sideways, his lips met each other, and his fingertips grazed his palms as his hands clenched. And as the Elvenking pulled away, a tremor running through his arms, the elf took a step backwards, and turned with soldier-like precision, drawing a long, noiseless breath before bowing his head, turning it to the side, and meeting the gaze of his father.

“Please do not waver now. The darkness may have been defeated, yet there are threats that still grow. I ask you to overcome whatever has touched your heart, for I know…” he paused, and with it came a strange silence “I have seen what love can do to the hearts of all creatures, even those of elves… love is not an enemy to us, yet it is an foe of war, and when mingled the two create sorrow and death beyond words...no. If you wish me to set out on this quest beside you, all I ask is for you to decide why truly you accept my company. I can not be responsible for a pain that might change you, and put those of our people who are left in danger. I shall gladly stand by your side as a faithful companion, a friend, even, but…” Legolas swallowed, and turned to face him fully “ I can not go with you as a son”


	25. Chapter 25

A wisdom as ancient as the cosmos seemed to rest within the starlit depths of Thranduil’s eyes. Even for one as long lived as him it was rare to experience such immense tragedy and hardship. He had lost his wife, alienated his son, and navigated his people through not one war with ultimate evil…but two. There were few in middle-earth who could lay claim to such feats, and those whom he had once been able to share his burdens with on this matter had now left for the Undying Lands. 

Thranduil could not blame them, what reason did they still possess to cling onto their lands and kingdoms? They were not like the wild elves of the Woodland Realm, elves whom had remained relatively untouched by the exploits of men and other races. Apart from trade relations with the city of Dale, and the wars which had necessitated alliances, Eryn Lasgalen stood as alone as it always had. There was no intermingling of bloodlines to be found here, no cities built beside them to corrupt their purity, the Woodland elves danced through the forest as they always had….unfettered and wild, free from the subjugation and restraint of their less expressive cousins. It was a difference in nature that Thranduil had always found thrilling. Even when speaking to Lord Elrond he had sensed it, a repression within the older elf lord and his people, a connection to their world that they kept tenuous at best… as if the elves of Imladris were always prepared for flight. The Woodland elves were very different, they were bound to their trees and kingdom in the same way one is bound to the air they breathe. They did not hide emotions beneath a veneer of calm and rationality, they allowed themselves to truly express their hearts and simply feel.

The mighty Elvenking alone was different in that regard. He turned his feelings inward, letting the spikes of pain butcher his organs until he bled eternally within, showing to the world only the cool face of controlled royalty even while he wailed inside. It did not mean that he did not feel as deeply as his people however, and there were times when the emotions within howled to be released, rattling the bars of their cage until Thranduil thought he might go mad with the strain. At times like these he oft would run through the forest, sweeping on light feet so swift that one might imagine he ran for his life…and in many ways they would have been correct. Thranduil ran to escape the encroaching doom that had been slowly crawling towards him since Mithiel had died. No hope lingered on his horizon, but always the Elvenking held onto a niggling belief that if he kept running he might at least have time to right a few wrongs…even if he himself was doomed.

It was this thought that consumed him now as he stared at Legolas. The single word his son whispered, a broken utterance of ”Ada…” broke Thranduil’s heart even as it filled it. So much could be felt in that word, so much loss and longing, all the hollow brokenness of the Elvenking’s failure as a father coming back to swallow him and sweep him into blackness.

How many times had Legolas called for his ada as a child, only to be ignored or treated as a nuisance? Too many times. Always Thranduil had turned his back on the child, unable to bear releasing the deep love for his son that he felt, afraid that if he lifted one corner of the barrier in his heart all of his grief and sorrow would be released as well. Eryn Lasgalen had needed a strong king to carry them onwards after such great losses, and Thranduil had known in the days immediately after Mithiel’s death that he would have to kill the part of himself that loved life and would have healed. It had been done for many reasons, some of them selfish, but some of them built out of a sense of duty and dedication to his people. Yet none of it could have been understood by the young child who had lost his nana and suddenly his ada too, and Thranduil had been too afraid to try and make an exception for his son.

There was no way to truly right this wrong. Legolas had grown up seeing his father be cold and majestic, a figure of marble that existed to inspire awe and respect, but could not be touched. For the prince of the realm to be a king was to be cold and detached from emotion, there was no simple way Thranduil could tell Legolas that this was not the way of kings, but rather of cowards, and that he had not always been this way. By his choices the Elvenking had inadvertently made his son to believe that an outpouring of emotion was a weakness, at least, a weakness for Thranduil that could lead to his kingdom falling apart.

All of this was realized by the mighty king as he rested his hands against the vibrant warmth of his son’s shoulders, the expression in the eyes of Legolas confirming Thranduil’s suspicions when at last he stepped away. Bittersweet sadness rested now like a downy mantle across the Elvenking’s shoulders as he watched Legolas steel himself for whatever speech he was about to make. For the sake of his son Thranduil would have to, once again, force down the emotions that were slowly killing him from within. If Legolas was to understand, to perhaps even accept, his father again it would need to be done slowly and on his own terms, this was seen clearly by the Elvenking. It would require sacrifice on the king’s part, a sacrifice of the chance to finally heal, but for once he decided that he didn’t care what the personal cost would be. If there was even the slightest hope of reconciling himself with his son…he would take the risk, and for the first time since Mithiel’s death a faint beam of light trickled into the hopeless dark of Thranduil’s soul.

As the blonde prince spoke the Elvenking smiled sadly, inclining his head slightly to one side as he listened, the sadness in his heart heavy but not burdensome. The final utterance of his son felt like the great tolling of a clock, proclaiming a change that was about to occur which could shift the entire course of an eternity. It was a change that Thranduil had already decided he would accept, and for the sake of Legolas he would become the father that the prince needed…even if not the father Thranduil wished to be.

Straightening with a soft exhalation, the Elvenking drew back his shoulders regally and looked down at his son contemplatively. He could not force the cold to consume him again, the influx of memory and confession to Legolas had negated its strength, but he could gather himself and remain kingly instead of fatherly. Thus it was that only a distant vague warmth lingered in his eyes, a fatherly glint of pride that could not be removed, coupled with the fierce regality of a monarch. Thranduil was splendid to behold, a startling echo of another time when he had stood vibrant and alive, a ruler with as much vivacity and wildness as the woods through which he roamed. It was a sight which had not been seen since prior to Mithiel’s passing, and though this new king was also laden with a sheen of great sorrow and loss, he also was breathtaking in the sudden swell of might which he shone with.

The guards behind them, though they had heard nought of the exchange, straightened instinctively without knowing why and felt a fierce burst of pride and loyalty swell throughout themselves. In fact the entire hall seemed to suddenly glow brighter briefly, as though welcoming back a part of the king which had been lost for so long.

“Do not question my strength Legolas,” this was voiced in a powerful tone, though it was tempered with a gentleness that took the sting out of the rebuke, “I do not waver, nor do I falter in my duty to our people.” The Elvenking grew contemplatively silent, wondering briefly what pains Legolas had endured that allowed him to believe he understood love. Yet it was not a subject that Thranduil could rightfully broach in this moment, so he paused only briefly before continuing. “Love does many things to creatures Legolas, it builds in equal measure what it destroys, yet that is unimportant.”

Waving a hand dismissively the Elvenking turned away from his son and began to walk down the hall, his feet making nary a sound as though he walked on the air rather than earth. “Come, walk with me.” He voiced, a command and not a request. “You would ask me to forget you as a son and know you only as a loyal subject…” Thranduil paused for a few moments, allowing his words to linger on the air, knowing he could not burden Legolas with further guilt nor allow him to suffer. “I understand your heart in its desire for this, and I wish for you to understand precisely why I allow you to join me in this undertaking that your fears may be assuaged.” Sharp blue eyes took in the blonde prince with shrewd consideration before he added a final comment. “Though I remind you that it was you who wished to accompany me in the first place.” The king murmured dryly with a soft snort of vague mirth.

“You are prince of Eryn Lasgalen, our people look to you nearly as much as they do to me, and for the prince to hide from danger in my halls would not reflect well on you.” Thranduil wondered if he was being too harsh, but knew sadly that this was more what Legolas would be comfortable with. “Therefore I allow you to join me for several reasons. The first is that you have much experience in battle and I know I need not fear for you as I would one less experienced, the second is that you are prince of the wood and have a duty to our people, and the third is that I do prefer some sort of company in the face of imminent danger.” A wry smile tipped the king’s lips upwards briefly before his face once more grew serene and purely regal.

“I do not ask you to join me because you are my son. As a father I would not easily desire my son to walk into danger with me, rather I would sooner see you safe in these halls, and thus you have nothing to fear.” The Elvenking ended simply enough and halted in his walking, having arrived before the royal stables as he had intended.

For a few moments Thranduil felt his heart clench in pain, partly because he was reminded of the loss of his oldest friend, and partly out of guilt for cheating Legolas out of this for so long.

“I welcome you to the royal stables. Here the mighty woodland elk, hearts of the forest, have dwelt as mounts for the mightiest in Eryn Lasgalen.” The Elvenking’s voice had grown slightly tight, and though he tried to mask his actions, it was vaguely discernible that he refused to look at the singular empty stall which gaped like a jagged wound in the otherwise full stable. “I bring you here today because, as a gift to you, I wish to present you with your own royal mount.” True sadness leaked into Thranduil’s voice and heart, the memories of his father, buried so deeply that he rarely needed to dwell on them, bubbling up ever so slightly though he kept control of himself.

“I should have given you one long ago Legolas, but I could never bring myself to do it.” He murmured quietly, an elegant hand sweeping open the door to allow them both entry before continuing. “Now I give you freedom to choose one for yourself, may ilúvatar guide your hand.” 

***

The Elvenprince drank in the sight of the elf-maid who stepped towards him. She picked her way across the cooling earth with greater grace than even the mighty hearts of the forest, the ethereal elk who (it was said) were the first created when the Valar sang their song to bring the world into being. In truth Thranduil fancied, for the briefest of moments, that as she stepped towards him on weightless feet there emanated from her a glow that did indeed create the form of one of the royal creatures.

Awe consumed the prince’s very soul as he stared at her, unable to fathom the reality that this unearthly being was approaching him, that her eyes were locked on his, and that the powerful connection that he had felt between the two of them from the moment they met seemed to be reflected in the deep pools of her eyes.

A silence fell between the two of them. It was not a heavy one, like that which weighs one down in the heat of summer, reducing them to fettered and stumbling fools, but rather a silence that seemed to pervade their very souls and bind them in a way that ought to have been frightening. 

Thranduil could see how her mind spun behind her eyes, imagining to himself the galaxies and songs that must be secreted there, the ancient magic and melody that could look on entire universes and stand unafraid. There was such a breadth and depth to her, deeper than the ocean and wider, endless pools that he felt a wild urge to submerse himself in. 

The Prince of Greenwood was not inhibited, nor was he held back by fears and insecurities. Raised on the love of his father, nurtured by the wind between the leaves, and fed upon the richness of the earth he brimmed forth with glorious command of himself. Like a wild west wind he could inspire fear in equal measure as awe, yet more often he was playful and carefree, dancing through the meadows and forest trails, more wild than much of his kin.

It was that wildness that glowed from within him now, beams of light that seemed to pour from his eyes and ripple out of his palms, circling the two elves and entwining them, a strange unfathomable binding that not even the prince could explain. It was as though the earth itself had wrapped around them, twining them together with invisible chains of living colour, pairing them and forcing them into one until their life itself mingled and wove itself together, the one bound to the other until no one could tell where one began and the other ended.

For the briefest of moments Thranduil thought he could see time and life itself, an endless spinning of such marvelous beauty that he was driven speechless before it, his knees weakening until he felt he might sink down in reverent awe and be pulled into nothingness. All of it because of the beautiful she-elf before him, and the prince knew, to the very centre of his soul, that their fates and lives had been welded together. Whether she would have him or not there could be no escape for him, it had somehow become far greater than either of them, and a fierce rush of protectiveness surged through Thranduil. He would die for her. Without question, without regret, he would fling himself into the very fires of Mount Doom to preserve her if it were asked of him, and while he did not understand why he felt this strongly he did know that the feelings were real.

The thoughts of such heroism and grounding severity of conviction were disrupted when the elf-maid spoke. Her voice flowed over him like a rippling stream and he was helpless before it, swept away in its sweet cadence and lifted into a state of indescribable bliss, a smile filled with all the warmth of a golden autumn sun billowing and pouring itself from him as she asked her questions.

Thranduil stood before her completely tongue-tied, yet when at last her delicate hand alighted upon his shoulder, the sun within him seemed to burst and he was filled with delightful warmth, and a laugh of pure light and joy pulled itself from his lips. The spell the sight of her had wrought on him was broken, and at last his tongue was free to weave a song for her.

“Where am I going? I go nowhere and everywhere at once. The forest is my mother, and in this time I seek to commune with her.” The warmth of his smile continued, a playful edge sneaking into his voice, the corners of his lips curling almost boyishly as he arched an eyebrow at her. “I also travel this path in search of you, hiril vuin, and finding you I would ask if you would come with me to commune with my mother as well. Perhaps we may both be wild and beautiful on one path.”* The invitation was softly worded, but strongly as well, there was a strange sort of faith in it that she would continue to walk this uncertain journey with him, and despite her admittance of reluctance to meet him…the fact remained that ultimately she had chosen to come, and it was enough for the prince.

“If you will offer no apology then I will ask for none, and in truth my heart is far too full and joyful with your coming to care that you tarried ere meeting me. That you did decide to come is more than one such as I could hope for.” A graceful hand shot out to lie over his heart, his head bowing to her reverently, the gesture seeming at odds with the nearly impish smile on his countenance. “I am glad to hear your friend recovers and will live to fly another day. It was an honour to assist you and no thanks needs to be given to me for my actions, unreasonable though it is I would do far more for you.” This was intoned softly, the truth of his words evident in the gentle way in which he spoke.

Unfortunately her final question posed a plethora of problems to the prince. Like a flighty bird he feared that to expose her to the truth of his heritage and high position would cause her to spread her wings and fly where he could not follow, yet to lie to her was such a crime that Thranduil knew he could never even think on it. Breaking the elf-maid’s trust would be devastating to them both, and he could not bear to lose her. Already to contemplate such an outcome was enough to make his soul cry out in pain, and in order to be near to her always as he wished… it was imperative that he do things well. Iluvatar guide me. He breathed silently, and tilting his head he smiled lightly at her.

“Surely I could ask the same question, your name has not been given to me to know and cherish either.” They stood on tenuous ground, and Thranduil could only hope that his words would not drive her away. “I am insignificant, a mere servant who would serve at your feet, nothing more and nothing less. There is great power in the giving of names however, and I would not bind you to me by sharing such a thing lest you decide to flee and leave me in eternal anguish.” The words were as poetic as they were true, yet the prince could not know whether she would reply in kind or be driven away.

Almost desperately he extended a hand towards her in the small space that separated them, a plea for hope and the opportunity for them to forget themselves being offered to her almost wildly. “Join me, run through the forest by my side. Perhaps we will find a greater sweetness in not knowing each other’s names…and if in time you discover that your heart sings with mine… then we can know each other in all ways.” Hopefulness shone forth from his eyes, though a measure of great uncertainty lingered as well, the hand trembling slightly with the intensity of his feelings. “Come with me…” Thranduil whispered tenderly to her.

______  
* my lady


	26. Chapter 26

Soft green eyes fluttered closed for a fraction of a second as the voice of her prince washed over her, a melodious reply to her soft admittance pouring forth from his lips, yet his tone was so pained and emotional that Tauriel's eyes flicked open in concern and she frowned at him faintly. The prince that had returned unharmed from the front-line of the war against Sauron stood before her now sounding more broken and lost than he had as a lonely little elf-child. It was enough to nearly make the elf-maiden alight to his side as she once had when they were children to offer him her touch as comfort, the tangible physical connection of two lost souls that needed company. Yet the distance between them, though in reality being mere feet, might have been an endless chasm for all the difference it made.

An ache lodged itself painfully in Tauriel’s chest, expanding and consuming her in a dull pain that ripped at her very soul. The things that Legolas said were heartfelt and spoken with good intentions, she could sense it, but all the same they were words that reinforced the distance between them. The former captain of the guard bitterly knew that she shouldn’t have expected anything more from him, but somehow she had still hoped for something more, for some sort of reaction that might give her hope that they could bridge the gap between them. Instead the words of Legolas seemed to further emphasize the need for distance, and Tauriel could feel that understanding tugging at her heart and threatening to break what was left of it.

“Legolas…” The swirling cacophony of emotion that filled her caused the elf-maid to forget herself in that moment. Old familiarity and tender care was leaked into her tone as she said his name, yet it was also bathed in a thick grief that had become a familiar acrid taste in her mouth. So much loss, it never seemed to end. The death of the dwarf who had taught her what love was, who would have given her an eternities worth of happiness, followed swiftly by the loss of her dearest friend and the only other being in Middle-Earth whom she had fully bared her heart to. So much lingered between them, whispered words and starlit heartfelt truths that they had spoken of only to each other, yet in this moment Tauriel felt that all of it had been lost, that Legolas had been wounded enough by her choosing Kili over him (and preferring death over a life without the dwarf and with only him) that he now no longer could even bear to look at her.

Desperately she wanted to reach across the distance between them, to cup his cheek and force him to look at her, to try and read the expression in his eyes and at least know if he truly hated her now. Yet it was not hate in his voice, it was some other unfathomable tone that caused something within Tauriel to tear and break, forcing feelings to suddenly rise from within that made her feel vulnerable and exposed…all her emotions shining through her eyes, unable to be hidden or contained. Ironically it became a blessing that Legolas would not look at her, for if he had he would have seen the love she bore for him that was briefly pulled out unwillingly from her soul.

Struggling, as though she were fighting to stand in the midst of a tidal wave, Tauriel forced the emotions to hide themselves again, yet she could not hold back the faint tremor in her voice which would have betrayed her emotional anguish to a careful listener.

“You are wrong Legolas, you deserve much… so much more than I could give.” A faintly rueful smile broke sadly across her countenance, the words holding unwitting double meanings. “It was not your father who brought food from the kitchens to a grieving elf-child and befriended her, it was you, and for that… and for much else, it is your approval I seek first in this.” Tauriel lapsed briefly into silence, painful memories of her banishment washing over her, of the endless nights in foreign places where all she had dreamed of was the forest and sweeter times, yet dwelling on such things would not change them, and pragmatically she forced them away. “I would not disobey your father, nor forego begging his leave to join you, I simply ask for your permission first for… for foolish though it may seem to you, I care more for your good opinion than your father’s.” Silence trickled between them for a long moment before a sad sigh was pulled from the copper-haired elf’s lips. “I would come with you to Angmar for many reasons, the safety of Eryn Lasgalen being but one, but fear not, for I am always mindful of the instructions given me by the king.”

Yet even as they parted and Legolas walked towards his father, Tauriel walking to her chambers to gather her meager possessions, a sudden memory of words spoken struck her and she turned back one final time to look at his fleeing back with a tender sadness written on her face. “Thranduil is my king but he does not command my heart.” An added whisper echoed from her heart, one that Tauriel could hardly bear to acknowledge, the king does not command it, but the prince… does.

A shudder at the understanding of things she could never have struck the elf-maid, and hurriedly Tauriel turned away and increased her pace to reach her chambers, afraid of what lingering on those thoughts would do to her. She would gather her things and meet the King and his son at the gates... to think beyond that was to risk falling into shadows of grief that would very likely refuse to let her go, and Tauriel knew that - if nothing else - she owed Legolas her support and allegiance if he would have it, and if that meant she must sacrifice her hope and heart... so be it.


	27. Chapter 27

Sadness brimmed from her voice, as if the comforting, cleansing river it had once been was no more, and instead all of the soothing sound trembled and cascaded into the chasm that gaped between them only to leave sorrow and pain, which gathered and rumbled in a thundercloud before breaking into storm, showering them with the same grief and solitude. He could not bear it, he could not bear to meet her gaze and try to bridge that distance, in fear that they would be swept away in a flood of agony and be lost to each other forever… no, he would rather stand there, shivering in the cold as the cold raindrops crawled through his garments and drew their cold claws against his skin, and wait in vain for the cloud to pass. For Tauriel did not love him, she never had. As a friend, once, and the years of that friendship were the ones Legolas considered the most beautiful of his life, but it had long since been shattered, and he had been the one to break it.  
The elven prince could not even begin to expect that she would forgive him for his actions, much less wish to be beside him once more… yet her voice betrayed not anger, but utter hurt, an almost palpable pain which caused him to wish to reach out, take her hand, convey to her the perpetual tenderness he felt towards her. He desired to ease her pain, to gently bandage the wounds of her heart… yet he did not possess that knowledge, and the elven prince knew that instead of soothing them with a loving ointment, all he could ever do was rub in bitter salt and cause them to fester. She spoke to him of kindness, yet it was untrue… surely, he must have only acted in such a way for himself, the lonely elf child must have done what he did not as an act of charity, but in a desperate masquerade for friendship… was this not all proven, in his act of running the moment he realized Tauriel did not love him, and that her pain would only cause him pain? No, whatever her words, the fact remained that he deserved nought from her, much less her company. She owed him nothing, she never would, and yet fear shook through him upon the realization that she must believe so. In spite of all that had passed between them, she chose to follow him to one of the darkest corners of Middle Earth… to what end? What goal could she have, but that of pleasing her prince, as it was clear she cared nothing for the king? She must still feel as if she had wronged him by following her heart, and Legolas wished more than anything to contradict that blow, for it was not true… if only he could return, if only he could once more stand atop that tower, and defend to the young dwarf before the pike impaled his heart… would he do it? Would he save him from death, and therefore allow Tauriel to live the life she so deserved, if only then to watch the son of Dúrin wither in age and then pass, leaving his best friend to drown in grief for all eternity? How changed would the fate of middle earth be, how different would their lives be now? Tauriel would be sunken in loss, yet she would have had a lifetime worth of love, a love he could never give her. Legolas blinked for a moment in pain, before briskly turning without a word. If she wished to follow him to Angmar, then so be it, yet he could not allow her to suffer any more than she had already. Legolas knew that in any moment he would readily lay down his life for hers, and if it came to that, he would not hesitate under any circumstance to do so. He owed her all he was, he owed her every moment she had wasted by his side, every inch of her free spirit that had been poisoned by the troubles of a royal elfling. She deserved so much more, and all he wished for now was that she find another creature whose soul matched hers, and live the life she could have enjoyed with the dead dwarf. Once the threat of Angmar was over, he would plead for her to do so. Dark places were no place for a soul who deserved to sway through the dance of life amongst leaves of green and gold, so full of life, of joy, and utterly void of sorrow.  
Submerged so in his thoughts, the elven prince failed to hear the whisper of memory that flitted through the halls, batting it’s wings in the endeavour to fill the mirthless air with hope.

→ ← → ← → ←An impending dread inhabited his bones, resting it’s jawed head against the marrow, dormant yet ever present, a weight he had never been able to shake. From the moment he was old enough to understand who he was, it had cumbered the prince’s mind like a base of molten lead, not always relevant or life changing but simply there, alive, basked in sleep until the time of its awakening came.  
One day, he would be king.  
Of course, as he grew the elf began to realize that this was not certain, that it may be that he would perish before his father, or that the Elvenking would simply live for eternity. Truthfully, it seemed likely, and Legolas was content with that notion. Thranduil’s reign had perhaps not been the most prosperous, but certainly he had governed with such wisdom and precision that precious few lives had been lost despite the battles that had been fought. Most had been inevitable, and the king was ever in avoidance of violence and war, in the same way he wished for no relation to any other creatures save for, occasionally, elven kin. The young prince had often resented his father’s brooding retreats, the way they must surround themselves by knotted woodland paths and lie in hiding from the world, yet now, having inhaled the stench of death, Legolas understood the rashness of his previous judgement. The lives saved were beyond count, the woodland soil was void of the blood and grief that would have soaked it had they marched to every dark battle of the last age. Legolas had seen many a life cut short, the river of eternity damned and clogged, cut off from its endless flow. Even the small brooks that streamed and spurted so fleetingly had been terminated with brutal coldness, the morsel of life that was given to them cauterized in painful cruelty. Life was precious, the most valuable of gems. It was above gold or belongings, above kingdoms , dynasties, armies. Perhaps the only thing, the single flash that it was not above, was love.

And that had ever seemed missing in his father, absent, as if the very notion of it had not rested in his heart, as if in place of it was a gaping hole impossible to be filled. Tauriel had seen this, too, and defied him for it, as he had placed the right to life of his people before love, the love of righteousness and honour and that of other races that inhabited this middle-earth. What she had seen in response Legolas would never know, but the sudden outburst of rage had sufficed to show those around him that perhaps he was not so void of the emotion as it seemed, that perhaps the frozen countenance masked something else that was never shown, never touched.  
Certainly, now, Legolas saw some glow lurking in the depths of his father’s eyes, as if the blue mirrors were losing their opacity, and through the translucent glass the pools of Thranduil’s soul could be glimpsed. Yet even now that they showcased a sea of stormy emotion, the water was still dark, darker than the depths of the oceans themselves, and plagued with unknown beasts that twisted and coiled inside the Elvenking, creatures of a nature reserved only to him. How could he know if they meant harm, how could he know how to pierce their gnawing jaws with a swift arrow, if they were shapeless spectres and he knew not where they lurked? How could he ease the pain his father surely felt, if he could not reach out, and submerge himself in the tortuous currents? For he would gladly do so, without hesitation, if it meant that laughter could once more take wing from the king’s lips, and rise with golden feathers to hail over him a deluge of life.  
Yet impotence lurked deep inside the prince, the knowledge that this was an impossible feat, and that only one thing could bring those insidious waters flooding out of the Elvenking’s eyes, and fill him once more with joyous fortitude… and that one spark had fled the darkness of this world long ago, and left Thranduil’s grieving heart bare to whichever current might take it. And that current had swept away all trace of love and buried it deep in the depths of his soul… and only now it seemed to emerge, propelling itself with infallible strength, as if in the act of their eyes meeting a beam had been formed, a bridge of light, and through it now swam a new warmth impulsed by powerful strokes, a fraction of the soul that had been chipped off and sent to the depths. And it now returned with elegant ferocity, and as if it were a flaming comet, it impacted upon the crystal blueness of his father’s gaze, and with it came a great blaze, a shudder of sudden golden light which momentarily cast its fire through the silent halls and caused the walls to flicker and vibrate in momentary luminosity. When he turned, a glow seemed to emanate from the king, an aura of unadulterated vigour that cast his cold features into sudden life, highlighting the lines of wisdom and power, yet still casting emotion into a brooding shadow, a darkness which would prevent the sorrow from spreading over the reborn luminance.  
Legolas felt his back straighten instinctively as he turned to look at his father once more, the feral glow of regality causing him to draw a sharp breath and incline his head in a gesture of renewed respect. Something had changed, as if their interaction had been the brims of two stones clashing, and upon the impact a red hot spark had flown, and caused an awaiting candle to splutter into life. Certainly, the Elvenking was not changed in the majesty of his poise, but rather illuminated, brought to roaring life, and even as he gazed upon him and spoke, the prince felt his own stance change, his back straighten and his eyes descend in awe and respect. It had been foolishly wrong of him to interpret the sudden display of wallowing affection as a weakness or a softening of the heart, for it only seemed to have flooded the monarch with renewed vigour that remained collected within his cool majesty.  
Truly, his father was magnificent to behold, tall as the eldest tree, steadfast, infinitely wise. Legolas found himself realizing that there were none like him in Middle Earth, that all those who glowed with such strength and knowledge were passed into the Undying Lands, and that now Thranduil stood alone, a magnificent beacon of unfailing fortitude. He was the last standing, loyal to the ground he trod and the leaves that shielded him from the sky, the last of a kind long extinct. And as he whirled with a whisper of his gowns, and bid him to walk alongside him, the prince found himself doing as commanded despite the apprehensive vexation that settled in the walls of his throat.  
Yet as the words rolled like silk from the Elvenking’s lips, Legolas felt the tension in his shoulders ripple and dissipate, assuaged by the meaning carried in the softly booming voice. A hint of a smile touched his mouth at the gently voiced reproach which, coming from his father, almost verged on jest, yet the elf understood the truth in it and conscientiously bowed his head.  
“Forgive my harshness, yes, it was I who requested to accompany you, and to that I still hold”  
His strides flowed to adapt to the pace of the king, who glided with swan like elegance imbued with unhindered authority, feet seeming to scarcely touch the floor as he walked the maze of halls in a pattern the elf still could not decipher. The cavernous voice continued to ebb and flow like an ocean’s tide, washing to shore in towering liquid waves before retreating into the humming depths of his chest, swelling, and surging upwards once more. Words so clear, so awakening, and yet they came with such a sudden rush and clash of spume that they nearly blinded him, ever barbed with the same salty sting, throbbing with uneuphemized truth. And this truth, despite its bite, washed over Legolas with cleansing relief, seeming to tear an encroaching dread from his shoulders and throw it into the chasms of proven insignificance. The reasons for his father’s acceptance were, therefore, as lacking in danger as they were sensible, and his reason for conversation was equally as functional. To assure him, yes, but also to lead him to a larger end, to arrive at a precise point in the map of the king’s mind which the elven prince could never seem to fathom, but which he endeavoured to lay every inch of his faith in.

Their arrival at the royal stables came in a flicker of surprise, and Legolas felt his brows furrow as he tilted his head to observe his father inquisitively. Stormcloud eyes flickered in turmoil, seeming to try and flee from memories etched into the very floor they trod, and as his sculpted hand reached out with utmost delicacy to gently push the doorway open, the elf was tacitly aware of the way the monarch’s gaze slid in laboured avoidance of an empty stall, one which Legolas realized suddenly had once been the home of Thranduil’s indomitable and puissant steed, a creature of the mightiest size which stood as proudly as the king himself. And though the stable now lay as it ever had, meticulously raked and fresh as if awaiting the snort and stamp of the vigorous elk, Legolas understood from the pain that suddenly laced the Elvenking’s voice that his companion must have fallen in battle, and a sudden cloak of sadness descended upon him. Though he knew little of his father’s emotions, he had seen the way he had deeply loved that elk, extended its life and cared for it in a rare display of still hidden affection. The loss must have pained him in the same way the loss of any friend would, yet the prince could not bring himself to utter words of of compassion as the next string of sentences left his lips, and with it something jumped within his chest, even as he turned to hide it and strode into the dimly lit stables. A familiar scent of wood met his nostrils, mingled with the sweet aroma of moss and hay and the grassy zing of their wild hides. A blade of straw rolled under his clad foot, crackling ever so slightly as it grated against the floor and causing several antlered heads to ascend in surprise, their nostrils dilating in leathery warmth and sending puffs of white steam floating into the chill air. Oh, how small they all seemed now, despite their enormity, how much shorter they were than the towering giants a wandering princeling had snuck past the guards to visit when deprived of all other entertainment. A rolling cloud of memories engulfed him like fog, and for a moment Legolas closed his eyes, avidly inhaling the scented air, seeing once more through the gaze of a senseless child those towering beasts, and the way he had stood on the tips of his toes to lay his hand against the thrumming softness of the Elvenking’s steed, only to be gently but firmly nudged away by a velvety muzzle. At this point the young prince’s heart had beat in shock and fear of the antlers that crowned the beast’s head, but steeling himself a smile of mischief had tugged at his lips, and realizing that at a certain distance the elk could do him no harm, he had continued walking through the, what seemed to him then, immensely long stable, tilting his head upwards to stare into the face of every royal beast, wishing he could swing up on to one of their backs, and ride through the forest and it’s clearings, thunder through the rivers like an oncoming storm, bursting through thickets and copses...  
That was when the child had set his eyes upon the fawn.  
A young thing it had been, yet still extremely large, seeming to balance itself on legs as long and thin and brittle as small branches, small tufts of whiteness poking their way through the top of his head like a growing shoot of grass, and yet little Legolas had felt his heart flutter with absolute delight. So it had done, years hence, when every time he could slip his way past the guards he would secretly visit the stables, and offer the rapidly growing elk small morsels, tokens of their secretive affection. Of course, the prince had never been able to ride the creature, yet a bond as strong as iron had been formed, up to the point when he had been able to swing to his back and sit atop his unlikely friend though bound by the inability to gallop as he would on a horse. It had been strange, also, to watch the rest of the steeds wither in age and their children and grandchildren take their place, all save for the King’s mount and Arveldir, for so he had named him. At the time, Legolas had not given too much thought to this, only grateful that his secret companion would not leave him so quickly, yet now the reasons for it were slowly surfacing into clarity. If only… the prince felt a sudden pang shoot through him at the thought that his animal friend might have perished after all these years, that perhaps it had been too long… he had even succeeded in abandoning him, also, leaving everything, everything behind…  
Slowly, warily, the elf’s eyelids lifted themselves from the embrace of darkness, and dilated to encompass the beams of hazy light that stretched tentative fingers to caress the hides of the shifting elk. The blue gaze travelled from antler to antler, slowly, in fear that he might find the stable also empty, or occupied by yet another young beast.  
Yet as it finally swept upon the sun-basked stall, familiar dark eyes locked with blue, and a sudden, unsullied mirth came upon him, and even grin spreading itself across his lips as he quickly strode towards the elk, hand hesitating only a second before resting upon the bowed forehead of his friend, a vibrant warmth filling his being and a soft snort to trembling from the animal’s nostrils. The coat was coarse under his fingertips as Legolas ran his hand along the muscled neck, a dappled pattern of pearl and chestnut, glowing with a healthy sheen that also touched the crown of velvety bone that did nothing to weigh down the creature’s proud head.  
“Hello, Arveldir, mellon-nin*” the elf whispered, and in response the velvety muzzle nudged at his chest, blowing a current of warm air that thawed the stone coldness of his skin, and with it, awoke memories of merrier times.  
\-------------  
*my friend


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers,  
> I have been postponing writing this for a while now, but I think that today is the right time to do so. For it has been exactly one year since the following chapter was written, and May It Be has come to its end.  
> Yet not in narrative, sadly. It was intended to continue for more chapters to come, with a full story arc, and an ending, like all tales.
> 
> And I am truly sorry that we cannot give those of you who have followed this story that closure.
> 
> As I mentioned some time ago, this was being written as a collaboration between two people, but for reasons I'm not aware of, the other writer hasn't been able to continue writing it for over a year now. I published the chapters so slowly, and so far apart, in hopes that she would return to the project and we'd be able to continue updating the story regularly, but after all this time I've heard nothing, and feel it's highly unlikely that will ever happen. And I cannot continue writing this tale without her wonderful and heartbreaking depictions of Thranduil and Tauriel. It simply would not be the same.
> 
> But from both of us, a colossal thank you for all of your comments, kudos, and support. And, most of all, for reading the story of these marvellous, ethereal, heartbreaking characters, and sticking with them. Thank you.
> 
> Enjoy the final chapter, and may it be that joy is always in your path.

The elf before her, though clad in the kind of clothes one would expect to be worn while running forest paths, seemed to throb with a painful kind of beauty, not radiating from the sharp contours of his face, nor the golden locks that cascaded down his back, not even the pale blueness of his eyes, but from somewhere deep within, something so profoundly encased within his being that she could not fathom where the source of this energy could be found, what it looked like, where she could reach out and cover it with a blanket of the thickest wool, muffle it’s scintillating, aching cry, so that she would not have to feel that dull throb in her heart, that sweet melody of danger. It tore away everything she had built with hands of honey, clawing at the sturdy, polished iron of what she had made herself be, the strong, the wise, the quick-tongued, the wild… Mithiel… she would never do this, not her. Elves of such a stance as he surely was could not permit themselves to court her as he did, it was an unseemly behaviour, and one that, had he been under her command, she would have felt she must reprimand. Her duty was to frown kindly upon his kind, guide them with a gentle and generous hand, yet always remain upon the pedestal of her birthright, be the one who conducted all those who served her with a distinct and progressive vision, eyes ahead, gazing at the future, at the segment of time when the fields must be ploughed, and the crops cut down and stored, at how much must be preserved in jams and conserves, and how much must be squelched into soft wine. She was the one who must crane her head over the rising responsibilities, and in spring set her gaze on the harshness of winter, to assure that her family and those under the care of her household would be provided for during the bitter months. How then, if her eyes must constantly dart to see that which was ahead, could she but spare a moment to gaze down and beside her, to those who she strove to protect, but could never see basking in that protection? How could she reach out her hand now to take his, allow her elven ears to absorb his words…. for if she but allowed it, Mithiel knew that her thirst for them would be unquenchable, that she could never again straighten her back and walk through frost with calm determination as all vestiges of coolness would have fled in order to leave space for that endless, gushing river of … what was it? Fear?

No, fear was what came with it, a consequence, an impediment. It was the kind of fear that would prevent a small child from wading into a gelid river, because upon dipping the tip of their toes into it, the water pierced their skin with needles of cold. And true, if they plunged straight in, at first it would bite at their flesh unforgivingly, it would take their breath away and cause their body to freeze in a sudden spasm, but before long, that sting would ease to a tingle, and the pure air would return to their lungs, and though the water was frigid and treacherous, they would swim basked in its soothing arms.  
And that pool beckoned to her now, waves whispering against the shore with songs of happiness. Oh, how badly she wished to plunge into it, despite the sting… it was of the purest clarity, void of any sort of mirk that could obscure trenches of swallowing mud. Simply clear, crystalline, glinting in a rainbow of swirling light… yet Mithiel did not know how to swim in it. He called her, melodious voice thrumming with the elegance of a harp, yet all she could do was grovel on the shore…  
What was this feeling, this deeply rooted flower that twisted its way upwards with petals of bliss? Every growth of its stalk broke through her skin, leaving her bare, exposed, her soul radiating joy but vulnerable to whatever was out there that might take it. She could not understand it… but she wished only to let herself be taken, as if something deep inside her, that core of her being that went past emotion, thought or reason, drove her towards this cacophony of beauty, an instinct so strong that, in this very moment, the elven maid knew that if there were any danger, she still would have made the right choice to embrace it.

“I cannot tell whether your words are utter folly or complete truth. It is true, the giving of names would only serve to create a meaningless rift between us, which would only become a hindrance once spoken. And, truly, I doubt whether a sound assigned to one’s being can speak of it in the same way actions and measured words do” tilting her head, the soft breeze spiralling through the waves of her hair, Mithiel smiled and extended her gloved hand. And with the movement, as if the tips of her fingers had awakened a dormant eagle whose wings now spread, a sudden gleam filled her vision, swirling, extending, the boughs of the trees seeming to surge towards them, scents of bark and fallen leaves wafting up in a tenuous dance, the very air swaying in polished warmth. It filled her suddenly, an abundant swell of joy,excitement, trepidation, exhilaration, laughter… and with a bursting gasp an abrupt light radiated from her eyes, and a song of laughter left her lips, and with an impish smile that matched his own, the elf withdrew her hand and took a playful leap backwards.

“Why, I do believe I have time enough on my hands to do as you bid me…” blithe laughter skimmed the air as the elf’s light body suddenly moved, fingers curling around the bark of an overhanging branch as she swung upwards without a sound, her grey cape billowing “I see your feet are swift upon the ground, mellon*, I wonder if they are still so when treading the heights.” the soles of her boots settled, and then sprang once more, tapping lightly upon the bark. Let us strike a pact. I have long thirsted for reaching the blue cliffs, and only now I realize they are within startling proximity from where we stand. If I am to arrive first, then on your honour you shall speak your name to my ear, yet if you prove to be the faster, I shall do the same. And if we tread the dappled rocks in the same breath… well, then we shall have to see.”  
_____________  
*Friend


End file.
